


A Slip of the Tongue Unleashed the Beast

by ChocolateSoup



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Curses, Gen, Halloween, Monster!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8211832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateSoup/pseuds/ChocolateSoup
Summary: The Floyd boys were enjoying themselves at the annual London Carnival. Suddenly, when Syd finds a mysterious fortune-telling caravan, their fates are all placed in the hands of an old carnie woman.





	1. Cursed

The night was young, and yet the sky darkened quickly. But then again, it was fall, the beginning of October. The days were progressively getting shorter as time went on, the trees were beginning to change colour, and it was the perfect time for a carnival to start off the season’s spooky, fun festivities. The Pink Floyd loved this time of year especially, and all that came along with it. The food, the sights, weather, the holidays, but especially the annual London Carnival. Now that was something they went to every year without fail. Yes, some years were better than others, some filled with fighting and others filled with some tears, but each of the five members were determined to make this year by far the best, because, in recent years, the band had become more and more agitated. But each thought that perhaps if they could make it through that night with no problems, it might just bring them closer together again. 

“I can smell the caramel corn,” Nick breathed as a goofy smile crept upon his face, tumbling out of the van. His booted feet crunched against the gravel of the parking lot, as he started edging closer to the entrance of the fair.

“Hold up there, Nicky, wait for the rest of us,” Roger yelled, the sweet saccharine scent of candy corn, caramel apples, pies and pumpkins wafted from the tents and vendors and into each musician’s noses. Though no one could deny it probably affected Nick the most.

“You can’t go and eat everything without your snack buddy, can you?” Syd called from inside the van, struggling to get out as soon as possible. But that struggle only increased as he got tangled with David and Rick. Money was short, and so the van was small. Nick grudgingly did what he was told, thinking that it would probably be more fun to dive into an apple pie with a partner anyway, and waited for Rick, David, and Syd to jump out before they all went in and bought their tickets. 

The night was passing by as the band went from stand to stand, game to game, laughing and eating sweets, getting dizzy from the heights of the Ferris wheel, shrieking at the rides a member had forced the other one on. But perhaps all that ended when Syd spied a very strange, exotic-looking caravan. It was large and looked like it had been taken out of a cartoon, an arched roof, and very large wheels. It was made entirely of wood, which was painted in deep reds, purples and blues, embellished in gold. The side of the caravan read, “Fortunes and Magic: See Your Future in the Present”. And of course, Syd just about begged on his knees to go in. 

Roger, now the self-appointed leader of the band, decided it was his job to go and knock on the wooden attraction’s front door. But to each five member’s dismay, no one answered it. Not a sound could be heard coming from the caravan whatsoever. The bassist took that as a sign to increasingly knock louder and harder. 

“Bloody hell, you’d think they’d be deaf by now, Roger!” David said, raising his voice as he covered his ears with the palms of his hands, Roger’s knuckles making a sound comparable to gunshots on the wood. 

“Well, they must be then!” Roger shouted back angrily, but stopped the knocking and instead, faced Gilmour himself. Roger’s shoulders were stiff, and he had a bad attitude about him that seemed to radiate and contrast awfully with the past happy feelings of the night. Those two, out of the entire band, had a very compelling rivalry. As if by the hand of god, right after Roger had opened his mouth to tell David off, the door opened, stopping the prepared tangle of heated words from the bassist's maw. 

“Boys, boys,” A friendly feminine voice called from the cart. “There is no need for shouting.”  
Roger turned and the entire band gawked at the sight before them. The woman was dressed in head to foot in a dark blue satin belly dancer's costume, a veil around her face and a purple dot in-between her deep brown eyes. She would have looked exceedingly beautiful if she hadn’t looked like she was about fifty. Her veil was in a tent-like form because of her large nose, her olive skin was wrinkling and freckled. Her voice was well worn, possibly from smoking. “Come in now, come in,” She said, waving them into the caravan. “You all waited so patiently, after all.” 

Something about the way she added that last sentence put them all in shame, especially Roger. But even that continued to dampen his mood further, and that angered him. Why should she criticize him? She didn’t even open the door for him the first time he knocked! He shouldn’t feel any shame for this. It was her fault, he decided, and she had absolutely no business whatsoever to tell him otherwise that he did something wrong. 

Inside the attraction, the strong scent of peppermint oil hit their noses abruptly. Draping, heavy curtains decked the walls, while shelves of coloured bottles, books, scrolls and even some skeletons of different animals were placed with care. The decorations made for an eerie, uneasy feeling that grasped their chests in an almost playful, teasing manner. The woman led the five to a large, rounded table, with three chairs surrounding what seemed to be a large grey marble on a wire stand. The woman’s ringed fingers domed over the ball and caressed it tenderly, she smiled in a grave, knowing manner. She motioned for them to sit, but there were only two chairs left. Syd scurried to a chair, as did Roger, while David rolled his eyes and knelt beside Syd. Nick folded in his knees beside Roger, and Rick followed in this fashion.

“Now, who would like to see their future?” She asked happily, gazing up from the oversized marble at the five, a crooked smile concealed by her veil.

“Oh! Please?” Syd said, jumping in his seat as he leaned further on the table, black curls bouncing as he smiled politely.

The woman nods her head in a knowing way, as one of her long, wrinkled fingers simply taps the ball. The grey forms to a cloudy pink and purple, the woman’s eyes, as well as each of the Floyd stares into it enticingly. The colours swirl and merge, they are reminded of a thunderstorm.

“A life of images and laughter, loudness and joy,” She predicts, waving her hands over the crystal ball “But a twisted memory can contort all this, stopping you in your tracks.” She warns.

Syd’s face goes from smiles to sadness.

“Will…will I forget everything that’s happening?” He asks softly, his green orbs meeting her hard brown eyes.

She smiles poshly.

“Not if you make some minor adjustments in your lifestyle.” She says, and sits back into her chair, now eyeing Roger coldly. She places her hand on the ball once again. The smoke turns thin, wispy red. “You, on the other hand,” She says in a darkened tone. “I do not have to see the crystal ball to know your future.” Her voice is almost a snarl. Roger’s anger climbs steadily. He didn’t even ask her for his fortune and already she was targeting him! All the while she never looks at the now seemingly bloodied ball. Her eyes are tainted onto the bassist’s wildly green eyes, and his eyes only.

“Many misfortunes, many indeed.” She continues, as Roger’s ears turn red. “You won’t be able to find a suitable wife, no matter how hard you look.” His fists coil tight, his short nails digging into the skin of his hand, “You’ll be tormented by your memories,” His teeth grind in his mouth, taste sour in the back of his throat, ”Your creations will tear you and others apart--”

That was the final straw.

_“Stop!”_ Roger growls, and stands up abruptly, pushing his chair back in the process. All eyes are on him, though most of his band would prefer not to. “You’ve no right t’ be treating me like this!” He shouts at her, jabbing his thumb into his chest. His Cam accent flowing wildly out of his mouth. “Goin’ ‘round and telling me I’m going to go on and have a shit life while everyone else goes off hunky dory!”

His palms hit the table with a bang, and he picks up one spindly arm and points his index finger to her face. The woman tries to remain calm throughout this all, but there is a fire behind her eyes as she purses her lips, her shoulders stiff. “You couldn’t even see a future correctly with that great hooter in the way, anyhow!” He rants, yanking down her veil to show her long, rounded nose. He knows he’ll be in trouble for this, most likely by his own band, but he does not care.

The woman stands up herself, and her chair falls to the ground with a crash, making some of the musicians' flinch. Roger, however, stays standing tall, proud and stone-like. No one noticed that she had touched the crystal again, as she now glances to each of them. The ball flashes purple, blue, green, yellow, and red.

“Hear me now!” She shrieks, and stares daggers at Roger. He almost flinches. “You have just changed everyone’s fate!” She looks evilly at them all, writing anger flowing through her veins. “Cursed! You are all cursed to your true forms by midnight this very evening!”

And with that, she kicked them out.


	2. Midnight

Nick Mason sits on his couch, legs folded to his side as he reaches down half-mindedly to a bag of caramel corn he had bought at the carnival for himself. The soft crinkling of the bag under his hand makes him feel uneasy, as it is a loud sound, and right now he wants everything to be quiet, to be soft. He had literally just stepped out of the shower, mindlessly wrapping himself in warm towels, and had sat right down on that couch for about three hours now. His eyes are fixed on the light of the television, even though he should be getting to bed soon. It was almost eleven thirty after all. Try as he might, however, he found sleep nearly impossible. 

That woman’s voice still rang out like a siren’s song in his mind as the sweet snack crunched between his teeth. He was sure he, as well as the rest of the band, had shrugged off her warning, But he couldn't deny that it still… bothered him. He knew Roger could even get a nun to swear, but having someone curse them? Was that just something she was saying or was it real? These and a hundred more thoughts scraped his head until he thought his brain was now a puddle. He raked what was left of his mind for answers to his problem, but none arose. He slumps into the cushions of the couch.

_Oh, poppycock, of course, it wasn’t real._ Nick told himself. Magic doesn’t even exist anyway. Even if it did, he of all people wouldn’t be “cursed” Why should he be? He saw no reason for it. He tried his best to be as good a person as he could be, paying taxes on time, being a strong, good friend, reliable. She was probably just mad, he dismisses. Saying things out of anger, much like the bassist himself did. To his surprise, he finds his mind is a little clearer.

The old wooden clock that sits on the wall strikes the hour, 12:00. Nick purses his lips. He stayed up later than he had thought. Getting up to put the bag of caramel corn in the pantry, he suddenly falls over, spilling the bag of salty sweets all over the carpet. He feels a peculiar prickling in his legs. His eyes are shut as his face makes an annoyed look. His legs must have fallen asleep, he infers. He doesn’t need this. First, the band’s not cooperating, and now even his body isn’t, either. _I need sleep…_ he thinks groggily.

Picking himself up to a sitting position by the arms, he finds something else strange. One leg doesn’t move without the other following in suit. Inspecting his legs further, he finds his hips become stiffer. Then his knees, ankles, and toes, until he cannot move his lower body at all. Then he gets scared, he feels his flesh begin to crawl. He sees the very skin separating his legs merge together, like hot glue. 

_“Shit,”_ he breathes, fears beginning to grip his chest tightly. He blinks hard, making his eyes hurt inside his head, and looks back to his legs. They were now totally merged together, one very large leg, even his feet were glued to each other. It looked as if an extra tight layer of skin had surrounded both his appendages, binding the two together in a very cramped fashion. The feeling was horrific, a claustrophobic clamping him together. He wants to tear himself apart, back to normality, but he is too frightened to even move.

Suddenly, Nick realizes something else was happening. They were getting longer, his legs. He could feel his bones going away, even changing, feeling like a million pinpricks as his muscles, too, lengthened and even grew. It hurt horribly, the dissolving of bone, and the production of new ones. He was being re-arranged until he was something new, something he didn’t want.  
The first notion he had was to look away, and when he did, he saw the phone. Well, technically, this was a medical emergency, and he reaches to dial the police, an ambulance, something. Then his hand stops, falling back to the ground. No one would believe this. Not one person. Especially not authorities. They would probably make him pay a fee for prank calling. 

Nick’s green eyes look fearfully back at his legs - well, where his legs once were. He notices his skin has gotten a soft green complexion to it, and has gotten progressively irritated and steadily more coloured to the point where he itched. He bends his frame to see better in the light of the television, and what he sees scares him. He’s being covered in green scales. And to make matters worse, there was now an added seven feet to his bodice, he had grown so long, so big. Thankfully, he seemed to be stopping, and within the minute, he saw to his surprise, that he was practically half drummer, half snake. Scales, tail and all. He rubs his arms with his hands, finding himself colder, and then a thought comes up. What if someone should find him like this? Surely they would freak, even kill him, if this wasn’t some kind of horrid, twisted illusion he was having. He didn’t recall taking any pills, any drugs in a while, actually. 

Suddenly the thought of someone holding a gun to his head makes him panic. His tail swirls around him, and not used to it whatsoever, Nick screams, backing up into the nearby couch, and falling onto it. His tail comes too, draping over his torso and face. The touch is very alien, and his breath quickens, sweat drips from him although he’s getting progressively colder. 

_Stop, stop, stop, get yourself together!_ He scolds himself, trying to relax. But everything inside his body feels so wrong, and he still feels everything inside him moving, churning, and it just felt so wrong. His stomach growls in an almost angry way, and he holds his abdomen as he lets out a few whimpers of pain. 

After a few minutes of calming himself down, and finally getting over the ache, he examines himself. He finds his tail to be almost beautiful in a way, long and speckled with that bright green on top, white from his belly down. Where his torso met his tail, it was actually a rather smooth transaction, his scales seemingly disappearing into soft human flesh. His tail is rather cold and even dry to the touch, and he aches for something warm. He finds that with this feeling of inner coldness comes another feeling: lethargy. 

He feels like he’s coped with his new form somewhat well, even accepts it, but there’s still a sliver of him that screams, _“Get it off!”._ He ignores it and sits up on the sofa. He flicks his tail, testing it. There is so much muscle, so much power in that one sharp movement. He wonders if he can stand. 

So he tries, letting his long, strong length onto the carpet, where he feels some comfort of warmness console him. He lets himself fully off the couch, finding it hard to balance his body correctly. But in no time at all he corrects his past flaws. He looks back to his tail and takes a gulp. He lets his body lead, moving forward inch by inch. He realizes that he’s slithering. Slowly, but he is doing it. Within ten minutes, he can snake down the halls in record timing. 

By that time it was nearly one in the morning, but a thought makes him stop in his tracks to the bedroom. What if his friends went looking for him for band practice in the morning? Band practice. He looks down to his tail. How was he supposed to drum like this?! 

Roger would know, Nick thinks. Roger knows everything. 

Nick carefully, silently, sticks his head out his front door. He had put on a warm cotton t-shirt, heating him up just enough so he felt he wasn’t going to fall asleep. He tugs nervously at his sleeve now, a habit made out of his anxiety. He sees no one outside, all the houses around him seem dead, the lights turned off, door locked shut, everything eerily quiet. Nick makes a mental note to never go outside at one in the morning again. 

He slithers silently to the van. Earlier that day, he had driven it home after dropping everyone off at their respective abodes. He climbs in, a tight fit to get an extra seven feet of long, sensitive tail in the seat. After a few minutes of struggling, he situates himself by draping his tail over the dashboard, the passenger seat, and finally, the tip of his tail to his seat, just able to press the petals. 

The road is horribly deserted at 1:30 am. But the silence and the eerie loneliness makes for time to think. What would happen when he would go to Roger’s house? Roger would most likely still be awake, the night owl he was. But Roger, though he kept vampire hours, was known to either get more irritated or even violent as the night wore on. What would happen when Nick would come in like this? A scene of anger, yelling, and even a few punches race through Nick’s already scattered mind. Perhaps Roger wouldn't be the best person to show… whatever this was to. Roger didn’t live too far away from David, Nick remembers. David, he knows, did keep night hours as well, but he got ‘sleep drunk’ because of this. Relaxed, kind, friendly, even a little dopey as sleepiness came over David, much in contrast to yelling and hitting. Nick turns onto David’s road, and thankfully, David lives in the middle of nowhere. The guitarist never did like the noise of popularity. Being famous in a neighborhood was probably what drove him out here. 

Nick parks the van in front of David’s house, only having minimal problems reaching the breaks. He clambers out and lets out a satisfying breath as his skin hits the warm, black asphalt of David’s driveway, heated from the sun that had still insulated the temperature. Nick finds his energy steadily building back up, and a part of him just wants to relish and roll all over that warmth. But you can’t, he reminds himself. He pushes the animal urge aside and heads up to David’s door.

He stops soon after, about five feet from David’s door, and directly in front of a problem. Stairs. There were three concrete slabs leading up to David’s front door, stacked on one another to make stairs. Damn, Nick had forgotten about those. Nick finds that he can raise himself up on his tail, much like a cobra, and then strike out, and land on the net stair. He does this two more times, raising and striking out until he finally reaches the door. 

Nick doesn’t even bother to knock, he had forgotten about common courtesy. Instead, his hand automatically went to the doorknob. It was when the door swung open with his strength that he got worried. David always locked his door. He waves the fear away, David must have just forgotten to lock it, as simple as that. Cautiously, Nick enters the darkened home, eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness. Blindly, he calls out, voice cracking in fear.

“Dave? Are you awake?” He calls out, fingers once again playing with the sleeves of his shirt. “I broke in,” He adds with a nervous laugh. He is now fully in the house, and his tail flicks to shut the door, “But you left your door unlocked. Made it easy for me!” He tries desperately to add a happy tone in his voice. He can’t tell if he succeeded or not.

Nick strains his ears to hear. Something, anything at all. And thankfully, he does. Nick hears a muffled, pitiful groan, and his head turns to see the dark, shadow-tainted hallway. Following that very sound as quietly as he could, towards the door that emitted light from underneath, and then he hears something else amongst the small moans. Something wet and sharp, but strangely serene. Splashing. 

The sound resounds in the hallway, and it makes Nick’s head turn around him as the noise surrounds him. His eyes adjusted to the dark by now, he freezes. The walls, the wallpaper, even the plaster of the hallway, shredded. The scene makes Nick’s heart skip a beat, and then race. He has to force himself to even grab onto the door handle, let alone turn it ever so slowly as his hand shakes. His tail is curled tightly in anticipation, he is ready to bolt should something happen. Finally, he opens it, even if it was merely a centimeter. He peeks his head in, eyes wincing as the yellow lights of the bathroom hit him hard. 

“David?” He calls quieter this time. “You in there?” His eyes adjust, and his hand clamps over his mouth, suppressing a scream. 

David’s bathtub holds in it a gargantuan creature, splattered in red and white stripes, covered in huge fin-like spikes. A large, bony, rounded tail flicks in annoyance and irritation. It was horrific, but it was not the stripes, nor the scales, the gills or the movement the thing made that frightened Nick. No, the scariest thing was is that the watery demon resting in the bathtub so fancifully had David’s face.


	3. Water

David Gilmour panics as soon as he sees Nick’s curious face peek out the door. The only thing going through his mind is to hide, and he acts on that impulse immediately, trying to cover his face and his body with his fan-like tail fin, splashing precious water out of the tub. David watched the clear water splatter on the tiled floor before his eyes shoot back up to Nick’s awed face. 

“Why are you here?!” David shouts, more menacing that he wanted to be. He grabs the sides of the pearly white bath, his knuckles turn white as his webbed hands spread wide over the cool surface.

Nick, a scared expression still on his face, didn't like how David had greeted him. “What happened to you?” Nick shoots back, in an almost sassy way. 

Taken aback slightly by the drummer’s mood, David begins to stutter uncontrollably. Because, in fact, David Gilmour is terrified. Everything happened so quickly and so abruptly, and now? He couldn’t even do anything. A fate worse than death, he was paralyzed in his own fear. Everything was so foreign and he just wanted to wake up and have everything be normal, he didn’t want to be like this! Half lionfish and half man. Possibly the cruelest fate anyone could acquire. David’s frantic thoughts stop, his face dropping when Nick comes through the door. With scared blue eyes, he sees Nick’s monstrous body. 

“You too?” He asks, and Nick nods his head solemnly. The drummer coils himself on the tile, the only way he could “sit down”. David thinks it’s very peculiar how already Nick has learned to move with such grace. How he can sway from side to side in an almost hypnotizing way, letting his torso lead while his tail follows the movement. Nick’s scales gleam in the yellow light, making the short drummer have a heavenly appearance. Nearly, at least. 

“A mermaid, huh?” Nick asks, nodding to David. “Pretty fitting, actually.” Nick rests his back against the peach-painted wall, under a mirror. 

David’s trembling lips steady and form that classic smile he is almost known for. “And a snake,” David says, relaxing himself some, though his muscles are hard against the cold tub. “You always did have a side to you that was very cunning.” He chuckles, though it sounds more like a cough. 

It was quiet for a moment. Both stared at each other and what all they had become, the weight of silence crushing their chests. David thinks of his own bodice. The large, rectangle-like spikes start on his ears-or where they once were. They were now long, sharp pin-prickled webbed fins, tangling his hair. Then, on his elbow, there sprouted more spikes, and then again on his hips. He found earlier that touching the tips made his skin bleed, and a sickly sweet smell come out of the spikes. Venom. David was venomous. 

“So it was real after all,” David says, looking into Nick’s staring, wide green eyes. “The curse.” It had to be real. This was certainly no illusion, he felt the pain that came along with transformation too powerfully to think this was a dream anymore. The only hope now was the slim chance that there was a way to undo this spell. But David can think of no antidote.

“I suppose so,” Nick agrees, his lips form a line. “That means…” His head snaps up from gawking at David’s large spikes, “Everyone else…” His eyes show a fear, not for himself, but for everyone. And that was Nick, thinking out for the group, though most of the time he would act as if he didn’t. It was the total opposite, though. Nick probably cared the most for everyone. 

David’s eyes grow wide. “Do…do you think…” It was more a question, really. A question both were not willing to answer, but were aching to find out. What happened to everyone else? 

“Well, let’s go, Roger isn’t too far from here,” Nick says, rising to his full height, and slithers towards the door. But before he can exit, David coughs in a manner that means _“I think you’re forgetting something”_. Nick turns around, facing David again. “What?”

David’s lips purse together in a sneer. “Oh, well I don’t know if you noticed, but,” David says snarkily, flicking the end of his tail that still covers his body. “I’m a fish.” 

Nick doesn’t take kindly to David’s attitude. “Only half fish, dearest.” Nick retorts, hands on his hips. 

David stares at Nick in an amused manner. “I still have to be in the water, _honey.”_

“Oh, come now,” Nick says, exasperated. He grabs onto David’s arm, then lets go when he feels a sloshing there, and he jumps back, startled. “What was that?” He asks, though it’s more a demand.

David fans his tail even wider over his body, completely hiding himself. “Oh, you didn’t see?” David asks, and it’s almost a frantic yelling. He looks away in anger. For a long moment, he lies in the bath, holding his aqueous arms. Them he sighs, a silent apology, looking back up to the drummer sadly. He lowers his red and white striped tail off his torso, letting it flop over the side of the tub. He reveals a pudgy stomach, and as David sits up more to let Nick see himself, there is a sound of muffled, faint sloshing as David moves, much to Nick’s surprise. 

“You gained weight?” Nick asks, leaning closer to David. The guitarist looks flustered and crosses his arms. 

“I can retain water, you oaf!” He growls, looking to the floor. “Not my fault, either. When I turned the water on so I could breathe, it just…went inside me.” It was horrifying for him to witness, much more to feel. The water pooling and flowing inside of him. It was something he’d much rather forget. 

Nick was astounded by this ability. “Well, if it’s inside you, then that means you’ll be okay,” Nick says, standing straight again as he shrugs. “At least try?” 

With some difficulty, David suddenly raises himself from the tub, and he tumbles, hitting the tiled floor with a wet, splashing thud. He breathes heavily for a moment, as Nick helps him sit. 

“You alright?!” Nick asks, winding his tail in a spiral, setting David there for support. 

David nods his head, his hair falling in his eyes. “Y-yeah…” The guitarist gasps, his arms shake. “I can breathe…” David is relieved that he’s not suffocating, and Nick’s holding him consoled him, too. 

“Come on, fish,” Nick says cheerfully, picking David up bridal style in his arms. “I’ll get you a water in case you need it, too, but right now we need to focus on checking on ol’ Roger.” 

Nick helps David into his van, and finally, after about five grueling minutes of stuffing, sloshing, complaining and griping, David manages to take up the entire backseat. The guitarist makes it known that it feels even more cramped than with Syd and Rick squished beside him the evening prior. Nick believes him. As promised, the drummer brings water, two bottles of it, and taking his now necessary position draped over the dashboard and sprawled all over the passenger and driver’s seat, he drives off to Roger’s home. 

Like Nick had said, the drive to Roger’s house was indeed short. Unfortunately, Roger lives more into the city, which had both musicians worried they might be seen. By that time it was about 2:50, almost three in the morning. Nick comforts David, telling him everyone is surely still asleep in their beds, that they won’t be seen. Nick feels like he’s just saying it, though, to be truthful. His words do little to console the speaker. 

Either way, the two make it out of the van. Nick once again carries David, up to Roger’s door. They stop once they get to it. Neither remember all the dents, the cracks that now tattooed the red door, and it’s no surprise that the handle’s been broken off, from inside. Nick pushes it open, after setting David on the ground. Nick cautiously slithers inside, while David drags himself in. The two can see in the dark by now, and both gasps as the scene of Roger’s once clean, tidy, organized living room unfolds. Everything is destroyed. The walls, even the ceiling is dotted with unfamiliar ‘U’ shaped dents, large cracks, holes and tears in the wallpaper. The furniture is shredded, broken, smashed and strewn everywhere. 

David surveys the scene with wide, awed eyes. “How did this happen?” He breathes, voice raspy and barely audible. 

The two cautiously survey the darkened room, noticing that not only the walls and the ceiling were in disrepair, but also that the carpet was torn, as if someone had raked it up. Huge, long strips were cut up, exposing the ugly boards underneath. Cracked bits of plaster were strewn all over the floor, and the air was riddled with the dust of destruction. The table lamp was damaged and thrown against a wall, the bulb broken, the wire inside flickering ever so dimly neon orange. The shade had been torn off, flung all the way across the room. The table in which it sat on was missing one of the legs, the other three attached were gashed and slashed. 

Nick was inspecting two parallel upside-down ‘U’ prints on the wall when suddenly a noise made him jump. He jerks his head to the source of the sound in a whirl. The source was lying on the ground, his back shaking and quivering as each wave of a coughing fit came over him. David was coughing horribly, dryly, trying to cover his mouth to muffle the sound, and failing miserably so. Nick quickly comes to David’s aid, asking in a hushed tone if the guitarist is alright. 

David waves him off but continues to huskily heave. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” He tries to say in-between coughs. Nick worries that David can’t breathe, and is suffocating slowly. 

Thinking quickly, Nick remembers the bottles he brought. “Where’s that water I gave you?” He asks in a panicked, hurried breath. 

David shakes his head, his eyes are shut tight as he fights the urge to cough. “I left...I left it in the car…” He manages to choke out. “But it’s fine, I’m fine,” He repeats scratchily, his voice rising in anger. 

Everything stops as a loud ear-shattering bang is heard down the hallway. More banging follows, like someone is repeatedly kicking and punching a hard surface. In a sudden clouded puff of dust and broken plaster, a large form crashes through the wall. The creature stumbles clumsily, falling to the ground, but it immediately regains its posture, charging at the two with great speed. Each time it’s four feet hit the ground, a sound of thunder emits, and it rattles the entire house. 

David covers himself with his tail, trying to look small, but Nick does something entirely different. As if by impulse, Nick raises himself on his tail, in front of David, his arms spread wide to make himself look larger. The dark, wild form stops in its tracks, rearing up on it’s massive hind legs, its front legs pawing wildly at the air. As it does this, it rises too high, slamming its head on the ceiling. Immediately it crashes its front legs back to the ground, and the impact shakes the foundations. Nick loses his balance and falls to the side, barely missing the powerful legs, but exposing David. The huge hulking beast grabs it’s head in pain, moaning in anger, stumbling closer and closer, nearly crushing the quavering merman on the floor.

David tries to curl himself tighter, but he feels as if he cannot move, save for his uncontrollable shaking. But in defense, his spikes are out and fanned, and he hisses warningly. It’s scaring the monster before him, and David crawls towards it menacingly. David has lost control now, as he suddenly begins to slash out with a clawed hand, leaving multiple gashes on the beast’s leg. The monster screams, in fear and in pain, and David recoils his arm to slash once more. But before anything can happen, there is a tugging at his tail. Gilmour turns in one swift motion to see what had touched him and sees Nick holding onto his scaly bodice. Once again, in response, David hisses.

Nick can see David’s face horribly clear now. And it scares him. David’s mouth is pulled back in a snarl, exposing sharp fangs. David’s once-rounded features were now sharp and angular, and on further inspection, he noticed David looks starved, not plump and pudgy. His gentle sky blue eyes are now wild, sparking with anger, aggression, and primitive fear. There was no humanity in his eyes any longer. David raises his clawed hand again, to attack Nick now, but before he can, Nick stops him for the second time. He lunges towards David in one swift movement, grabbing the guitarist’s wrist tightly, holding him back. 

Nick’s brow is furrowed, and angry expression most prominent on his face. “David, _stop!”_ He growls through his teeth. 

"What the fuck?" 

The sudden outburst and familiar, yet angry voice makes Nick look up to the speaker. The beast before the two brawling monsters is trembling and appears shocked in its shadowy silhouette. It leans forward ever so slightly.

_“David?”_

David perks at the sound of his name being called, like a person being taken out of a trance. He whips around, taking his hand away from Nick in the process. The two stare up at the dark figure, who appears to be trying to stand. However, the injury on its leg prevents it from doing so. Instead, it falls to the ground with a loud thud, making the room shake. David, startled, crawls behind Nick, spreading out his fins to make him look bigger. His head peeks from behind Nick’s shoulder, eyeing the night-cloaked form warily.

Nick rolls his eyes irritably, in annoyance. “Oh, now you want protection,” He growls under his breath. He focuses his attention back onto the hulking monster before him and edges closer, inch by inch. David stays rooted to where he is, not daring to go further. Moaning, the form on the ground rolls on it’s back, it’s injured leg lolling limply. The moonlight flooding in from the shredded curtains shines on its face, and Nick’s eyes grow wide. He sees Roger’s dirty, sweating, pain-contorted face practically glowing in silver moonbeams.


	4. Rage

Roger Waters’ eyebrows are narrowed, his face radiates anger and even confusion. Rage is always present in his eyes. It grows softer when he recognizes Nick, but still, it does not totally dissipate. Instead of approaching his bandmates calmly, he bares his teeth in a menacing fashion. His aggressive act adds to Roger’s monstrous appearance. 

“What the fuck is going on?” He practically spits at the drummer. Nick looks away, his mouth still shut. With no immediate response, Roger yells again for an answer. “Nick, why are you here?!” His shoulders are tense, arms hanging stiffly by his sides. The veins that run down his appendages begin bulging out of the skin, they look ready to burst. He hates that there are now people in his home, much less, people who stare at him. He wants them all blinded, no one should be able to look upon him. 

Roger sees Nick shrink as he opens his mouth. “We wanted to see if it happened to you too…” The black-haired drummer says quietly, a hint of frustration in the mix of Nick’s calming voice. Roger can tell Nick is straining to see the rest of him, but Roger makes sure to keep himself hidden. He allows the only thing human he has left to be seen, his torso and face. He won’t allow any rest of him to show. At least not now. He won’t admit to it, not aloud or even to himself, but he is very ashamed of what he has become. 

If there is one thing Roger wants right now, it is to tear away everything below him. Rip it all off and set it on fire, watch it burn to ashes. The feeling of being put into something completely foreign, something that he was even made fun of in his past, it made him embarrassed to resemble such a thing, even in the slightest. It made him have a smoldering passion for tearing it off himself. Run away from it. Be a million meters away and then some. But now it was him and he was it, and not even Roger could change that fact. 

His anger rises if it’s even possible when he thinks for even one second about it. “Excuse me?” He barks. His voice is very loud, he doesn’t care if he wakes any of his neighbors up. In fact, courtesy is the last thing on his mind. “See what happened? What happened was the aquatic porcupine mutilated my leg!” He huffs a breath through his nostrils, hot air contrasting in the cool night. 

Nick rises a little after that, defending the cowering lionfish behind him. _“David_ didn’t mean to.” He starts, and Roger can tell that he was annoyed with his choice nickname for the guitarist. “He’s just-”

Roger doesn’t bother listening to Nick’s babbling, so he cuts him off. “David!” He growls the guitarist’s name in his throat, the name tastes like acid. Roger acts by forcefully pushing Nick to the side, so he can see Gilmour for himself. “David, what the fuck did you do to me?!” He screams again, his threatening stare drilling into the cowering merman before him.

All David does is look away, letting his hair fall in front of his face, he pushes himself further away from the raging bassist. David does not want to be anywhere near Roger, not when he was human, not like a monster either. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. 

Roger, enraged, thinks David should see the full damage he has inflicted. So with immense amounts of strength and pain, Roger forces himself to stand. Gritting his teeth and sucking in air to muffle and block any whimpers, he makes sure only to wince slightly as all of his weight is pressuring his injured, bleeding leg. At his full, foreboding height, Roger towers feet above the heads of the two, nearly touching the ceiling. He pushes what pride he has left and drowns his ego, and forces himself to limp into the moonlight to be gawked at.

He glowers down with cold, numb eyes to see Nick gape, covering his mouth with one hand while the other plays and fidgets with the hem of his shirtsleeve. Nick’s eyes stare down Roger’s lower half, unable to look away. David glances then looks away only to look back again. His eyes stay tainted on Roger.

Roger hates himself, all that he is. Only his torso remains intact, everything else has been replaced with a hulking horse’s body. He was huge and black, made bulky and firm. His horse’s chest was tight, rippling as he moved, rising with raging power each time he took in a single breath. Thick, long legs connect to solid shining hooves, they clop heavily as Roger finds balance. He is as hard and solid as stone. His hooves and lower legs are covered in long, black strands of thick fur, and on his front left leg, crimson liquid mats that same hair. His long, black tail swishes from side to side behind him.

He knew they would stare, and he knew he wouldn’t like it. “Stop lookin’ at me like that!” He yells to the ogling duo. His fists are clenched, and his back leg paws the carpet, tearing it up more. His arms crossed over his chest, fingers digging into his biceps. 

“It’s kinda hard not to,” Nick scoffs, bravery returning to him. The snake takes back his position in front of David, blocking him from Roger. “You’re a bloody horse.” 

Roger’s large mouth forms a sneer. “Shut up, you serpent!” He screams and begins to trot closer to the two. Each time his hooves hit the ground, the floorboards shake intensely, making things rattle and clank. “Move out of the way,” He commands to Nick, motioning with his head. “I want to talk to David.”

Nick spreads his arms out, in an attempt to protect the quavering merman behind him. “Wait a minute!” He scolds, but a belligerent Waters forcefully pushes him out of the way. 

Roger is surprised to see David, not because of his fish’s tail, but because of how utterly fragile he looks. His ribs are showing through the greying skin, his cheekbones jut out and his eyes are sunken in. David’s chest is heaving, and it’s like he can’t get enough air. The corpse-like figure looks up to Roger worriedly, weakly, panic prominent sparking his eyes. 

“No -” The fish tried to gasp, but was thrown into a coughing seizure. Roger watches uncomfortably as David’s claws scrape at the carpet, his sharpened teeth biting the air, fins fanned out all around him. Roger backs up to avoid being punctured, confused as to what was happening. He watches as David’s tail twists and contracts, hearing David wheezing for oxygen. Spreading his large legs apart, Roger bends down somewhat, getting a better look at the fish without touching the large spikes. 

David looks frantically around, hair twisting around his shoulders and face, and then Roger sees the merman look under him. David suddenly bolts under Roger’s chest and emerges without scraping Roger whatsoever. David was crawling towards Roger’s bathroom at a very fast pace, charging down the hall as quickly as he could. 

Though the house may look like a hurricane-ravaged through it, David still remembers his way around. Roger watches and ties to follow. However, the task is more difficult than it looks. Roger is still not used to his legs, much less his injured and bleeding appendage. Long and built, power courses through them, an energy Roger has yet to contain. Nevertheless, his long legs try to work with David's speed, though unsuccessful. The centaur trips over a pile of rubble unseen by his eyes, which are tainted on his guitarist. Roger hits a damaged wall, slamming his entire weight into it. Huffing and puffing, he recovers as soon as he can. Angered, he shoots one of his back legs into the wall that dares defy him, leaving a huge ‘U’ shaped hole. With a jerk, he sets his leg back to the ground, his head lowered to watch where every hoof falls, mapping every piece of strewn furniture and hunk of plaster that has been thrown as battlefield mines in his living room. 

Roger’s ears perk to the sound of snickering and his head swerves to see Nick chuckling at Roger’s dainty, stiff movements. But Nick’s giggling stops as an ear-bleeding shriek and the teeth-grinding sound of scratching emit from the hall. The horse and snake rush towards the sound, to see a scene that was totally animalistic. It scares them both.

David is raking his claws along the wooden door, marking it with long lacerations. The scrapes only reach so high, though, only about a foot above David’s head, resting on the wooden wall of the door itself, close to the carpet. It suddenly dawns on Roger that David is trying to reach the door handle. The only thing stopping him is his lack of strength. 

Though David’s face is marked with the mask of death, Roger still finds room in his blackened heart to complain. “He’s fucking up my door!” He angrily mumbled, crossing himself. His front leg paws irritably on the ground, black tail swishing.

Nick, bewildered that Roger would complain about such a little thing as a door, turns to glare at the centaur. “Mate, you destroyed your entire house, your door shouldn’t even matter.” He says acidly. Roger, tall and pompous, ignores the drummer. Rolling his eyes, and fed up with Roger’s ego, Nick slithers slowly and kindly to the doorknob, wanting to help the small, almost decaying form on the ground. He goes with the best intentions. However, sensing a threat, David curls his tail, drawing his clawed hand and swipes at Nick, snarling as crystalline purple drool dribbles out his open maw. 

“I’m trying to help, you dolt!” Nick shouts but backs away all the same. Roger realizes that there isn’t really any David Gilmour at all, not now anyway. What’s left inside David’s head is animal instinct, the need to fight to breathe. He notices that David’s once sky-blue eyes are now totally dilated, his head holds only blackened, glazed-over marbles. Roger feels hypnotized, his own green irises entranced by black obsidian spheres. He's pulled out of his trance by Nick’s frantic whispering. “Roger, open the door for him!” 

“Are you mad?!” Roger challenges, motioning to the heaped and growling form of a merman on the ground. Roger knew if anything touched him, there would be bloodshed, even if David did look as breakable as paper-thin glass. 

Nick is persistent, though. “You’re higher up, he can’t reach you!” The mustached half-man argues.

Roger feels like Nick, in a way, is questioning his ability. And certainly, Roger could do far more than Nick, even if it was to simply open a door. Not being able to do so would make Nick look as if he were Roger’s superior. And Roger couldn’t have that. Acting quick, Waters leans down, quickly turns the knob and pushes the door open without getting too close to the feral mermaid. As soon as Roger had opened the door a crack, however, David took the chance and bolted straight for it, making the door crash into the bathroom wall, denting the paint. The sound it made is comparable to a gunshot. Roger and Nick look at each other for a moment and peek in through the doorframe to the clean, unscathed bathroom. 

David had thrown himself into the bathtub, turning on the water as soon as he could, and stuck his head directly under the faucet. The water, ice cold, rushed out like a waterfall, and David gulps frantically the wonderfully wet liquid life, his nectar, and ambrosia. After a minute of wild chugging, David leans back into the tub, no longer a starving and suffocating fish, plugging the drain and lolling happily in warming, quenching crystal water. He smiles as he relaxes, calmly and giddily flicking his large tail. 

Roger stays where he is, paralyzed to look at the sight, but Nick slithers silently, checking on the bath’s current patron. He is filled with caution should anything happen, he is ready to bolt out the door. But as he approaches, he smiles toothily, seeing David begin to plump up again, his body taking in and filling out evenly with the water. 

“Dave?” Nick asks quietly, his gentle demeanor showing. “You alright?” He’s doing all he can to not startle David, lest he is open to an attack. 

But nothing wild or erratic occurs, David looks up to the black-haired drummer brightly, with happy sky-blue eyes and a gleaming smile. His eyes no longer black holes, teeth no longer daggers. David was once again himself, mindfully at least. But Roger notes how David’s face falls so when Nick asks his question. An uneasy feeling tones the bathroom unsettlingly. 

“I’m fine,” David says in a hushed voice, though it is no longer raspy and dry. David once again is the picture of perfect health, he almost glows.

Roger remains unspoken, so Nick pipes up again. “Do you remember…” Roger has a feeling Nick was about to say something that was to unintentionally hurt David's feelings, and the drummer works to avoid such happenings. “Anything?” Nick replaces. 

Roger watches as David turns away, facing the wall parallel to where Roger and Nick stand. Somehow the bassist knows that David can’t seem to bear it looking Nick in the eye. Roger realizes David’s shame, he can almost feel it in his own chest. David must have remembered it. Remembered everything he did, Roger thinks. A man that was torn from his humanity physically, and now mentally. That was a hard burden to bear. All because of the need to breathe, Roger knows David would probably have killed them both, maybe even drank their blood to stop from suffocating, if they had stalled a moment longer. He tucks this bit of information away for later, he feels it might be needed, useful, even. 

“No,” David says, a little louder. Roger sneers slightly, and David adds on with, “But I don’t care to know.”

 _Liar._ Roger thinks, looking down to David with hidden disgust. He wants to scream that word out so David knows what he is. _Egotistic madman, too._

Nick seems oblivious to David’s untruthful replies. “Alright,” The drummer states cheerfully, a ghost of a smile on his face. But then Nick faces Roger, although he is addressing both Gilmour and Waters with his next words. “What about Rick?”

Roger pauses for a moment. He had forgotten about everyone else. Forgotten the world existed, along with them. Forgot they were all freaks of nature. “What about him?” Roger asks flatly, remembering what he is, what he’s forced to be. The reality is cold and unforgiving. Roger hates it. 

Nick looks taken aback by that response. But Roger could care less about a drummer’s feelings. “We need to know if he’s alright!” Nick persists urgently. “There’s no doubt the curse affected him as well.” The word echoes in Roger’s head for a moment. That god-awful word. Roger despises the word. Five letters, so evilly put together.

“Curse?” He asks, letting out a laugh as bitter as lemon drops. “Are you talking about what that long-nosed bitch said earlier at the carnival?” He asks. He hated that woman the moment he saw her, and even if she had such power as to change his body, no power in the world could change Roger’s mentality. His intense emotions of loathing, despising, hating her. He would say anything he could against her, even if it did prove to be costly. He needed a way to defy her, rebel against her ways. He has power, and it would show, whether she liked it or not.

Nick is not pleased. “Who else would I be addressing?” The drummer snarkily replies, forcefully choosing not to criticize Roger’s words of description. Either way, Nick’s blood is rising, making his cheeks pink.

Roger smirks. _How far would Nick take this?_ he muses to himself. He decides to toy with the drummer. “Please, she was nothing but a mad gypsy.” He replies with a wave of his hand. A horribly wrinkled fig in a belly dancer’s costume, that was all the woman was. Roger grins at his juxtapose comparison of the two that his mind has created. 

Nick’s ears go red. “Are you daft?” He spits at Roger, obviously not taking this. “Look at yourself! You’re a bleedin’ pony for God’s sake!” Mason argues, motioning to Roger’s hulking bodice. 

Roger scoffs, but he takes offense to it all the same. “Har har.” Nasally mocked laughter emits from Roger’s mouth. “I’m a horse, you _earthworm.”_ He hisses. 

Nick finally breaks. He’s had enough of this. “Roger, get over yourself for one damn minute and just think!” He shouts, exasperated, throwing his hands down. 

Suddenly the room is dead quiet. Roger has had his fun, but he previously suspected Nick was going to be harder to push off the edge. He’s almost disappointed that he didn’t get to play this game longer. Even David was stunned Nick had snapped so quickly. His long, webbed hands clutch the side of Roger’s bathtub, Roger realizes David is ready to act if it so happens someone is to strike out. 

Roger stares long and hard at Nick, eyes and brow narrowed. After a moment of staring down the drummer, Roger whips back on his hooves and slowly clambers toward the door. “Let’s go.” He commands. But he’s under the threshold of the door and still no one has moved. Irritated that the two have not acted, Roger turns his head and looks at them menacingly. “Come on, you lot! We have to go get Rick!” He makes sure to have the “we” sound as acidic as possible. 

The only one who moves now is David, in the worst way possible. He sinks lower into the water. “I don’t want to.” He states simply, hair floating on the water’s surface. 

Roger was fed up. “Oh, _of course_ you don’t.” He says, venom in every word he utters. “The lazy bastard you are.”

David rises, offended. “Hey!” He shouts at the horse, “I- I can’t…” His voice dies down, eyes stare at the water solemnly now. “I’m very worried about Rick.” He admits. “But, I’m also worried about…about suffocating to death…”

Roger steps back into the room, his head tilted quizzically. He’s curious, because to him, one thing does not add up. “Well, how the hell did you even get here in the first place?” He questions, his hands steady on his own hips. 

David puts his eyes on the drummer. “Nick put me in the van, gave me water bottles.” He explains, Nick assures this with a nod of his head. 

“Well did you drink them all, then?” 

Roger’s question sparked a fuse that eventually lit pink in David’s pale cheeks. “Um, no...” His fingers play with the webbing on his hand. “I… left them in the van.” Each word has weight to them. 

Rolling his eyes inside his high head, Roger feels as if he’s not talking to David at all, but perhaps a small child. A preschooler. “Then we’ll bring more, and we won’t forget them, now, will we?” Roger asks coldly. He doesn’t let anyone respond. “Let’s go!” He huffs, trudging out the bathroom.


	5. Instinct

Out on the road, Nick makes sure to drive slowly as Roger trots alongside the vehicle. His leg had been cleaned and bandaged, with the help of David, before they left. Of course, though he wanted to ride in the car terribly, Roger was simply too large to fit into the van. Grudgingly, he limps beside them, still too hurt to gallop. David had apologized hundreds of times by now, face red and eyes unable to focus on one thing as he stammered. 

Nick Mason groans, the back of his head gently pressing into his seat, tail itching to possibly floor the gas pedal. He’s been going ten miles an hour, after two and a half hours of driving. To keep Nick from going into hysterics, David entices him into a friendly conversation. 

“What do you suppose Rick has become?” Gilmour calls from the backseat. Then he chuckles, hand on his bare, sloshing tum. “I’m betting a unicorn.” He adds a large toothy smile on his plump lips, tail flicking in amusement. Nick smiles, it’s a contagious action. He imagines the quiet, solemn pianist as such a frivolous animal. It seems fitting, but unlikely. He decides to challenge David’s comment with his own. 

“You really want to bet against me?” He asks, brow raised and grin on his lips, glancing at the happy mermaid in the rearview mirror. “A shilling if you’re right.” 

David laughs, loud and clear as a bell. Nick has missed that sound, it warms him to hear it. “I don’t exactly have my wallet with me!” David giggles out and takes a long gulp of water. Roger had thrown a whole case and an extra gallon in the van. The lionfish was very satisfied. Then, Nick’s attention was on the tapping on his door window. He turns his head to see Roger’s long spindly fingers tapping repeatedly, begging for attention, and then his other arm motions for Nick to roll down the window. Nick obliges, and Roger begins to join in the friendly conversation. Roger had seemed to relax once all his energy was spent ruining his home and yelling at the musicians. 

“What are you two chatting on about?” The centaur inquires. He has to lean down to be face-to-face with the driving snake, and to stable himself, he holds onto the roof of the van.

“Oh, what we think Rick turned into,” Nick explains, then motions to the back. “Dave says unicorn.” 

“One horse is already a handful enough,” Roger grumbles, and focuses his attention back on the road. They move in silence for a long moment, only a mile from Rick’s abode. Rick lived secluded part of the city, in the woods on the outskirts of town. Rick always liked nature, the quiet. Funny compared to how he was in such a loud band. 

Then David says something that induces worry in Nick. “Do you suppose Rick left his home like we did?” Nick sighs in exasperation, forehead hitting the steering wheel.

Nick suddenly envisions the scene, finding out that the door was open, no sign of Rick whatsoever. Taking hours to search for him, a scared figure confused and cold, shouting out for Rick who couldn’t hear them until the day breaks. What if they were seen? That simple thought gives Nick grueling anxiety, making his stomach churn. “Don’t say that now!” Nick scolds. “We’re almost there!” He couldn’t take it if he had to go looking for whatever the hell Rick was now in the van, moving at snail’s pace. He wanted to move.

David notices Nick’s predicament and tries to take back what he’s said. “Maybe he got stuck like Rog was.” He suggests. 

Nick rolls his eyes. He keeps his good nature, of course, though his mind is focused on how he’s practically moving a centimeter a second. What it would feel like to have a bullet to through his tail. “Roger almost caused his whole home to cave in on him.” He snaps back playfully.

Roger perks at the mention of his name, he looks back into the car quizzically. “Oh, you’re talking about me now?” His voice drips with sarcastic enthusiasm. 

Nick doesn’t like having to relay messages between the two, so he asks David if he wants his window rolled down. 

“What, do I look like a dog?” David jokes, poking fun at Nick’s suggestion. Nick, laughing, explains his reasoning. “Oh, sure,” David says, waving his hand to urge Nick on. 

Nick happily clicks the button to roll down David’s window, and as more air floods the car, whipping hair in Nick and David’s face, Nick thinks shrewdly that the powered windows are about the only good thing about the damned vehicle. The heater didn’t even work, much to the snake’s dismay. Nick ached for something warm. 

It seemed like an eternity in a day, but finally, and much to Nick’s pleasure, the three arrive at Rick’s home. It was surprising, the whole place was mute, dreadfully silent, you might even dare to say it was peaceful. It set the three off, unbalanced serenity was something they were now foreign to.

Nick practically races to the door, speeding up to it, hand flying to a stiff, locked doorknob. Forgetting people lock their doors, he smashes into it, landing onto the doormat in a heap. Roger stares down from his foreboding height, a slight grin on his huge lips. David groans after trying to open the door, too, and it not budging. Nick dusts himself off, rising up once again. 

“Shall I kick it in?” Roger asks, scraping his unscathed hoof against the ground, where fragrant, soft black earth churns up. The bassist braces himself for the task. 

Before he can, though, Nick stops him. “And scare Rick half to death?” He shakes his head, wavy black tresses bouncing. “If he is in there, he’ll be just as confused as we were, a giant horse kicking down his door is the last thing he needs.” He remembers Roger breaking right through his own wall, charging at them with all the tall, lanky centaur was worth. 

Roger, reluctantly, stomps his hoof to the ground. “Well, Einstein, how pray tell do we get in?” He asks, his nasty demeanor showing his pompous ego. Nick is tired of his attitude. But before Nick can single-handedly deliver Roger a good dosage of a much-needed reality check, David pipes up. 

“Found it!” He calls, about ten feet away, crawling towards the two. No one even noticed David had gone off. In his hand, David triumphantly holds a house key. Pride shines on his smiling face. 

Roger’s eyes shoot up, a surprised expression wiping away his pride. “Where did you get that?” He inquires. 

David smiles, happy to respond to his genius. “Oh, it was under that horrid old squirrel statue,” He says, motioning over to the small garden Rick maintained. He hands the key gingerly into Nick’s open palms. “He had told me about that the last time he wasn't here and I was locked out.” The oversized fish explains. 

Nick, anxious to get in the house, sticks the key in the lock and twists the knob hurriedly before he stops. He reminds himself that he should calm down, and take things slowly. Rick would probably be in some state of shock, they should approach him calmly. So in a slow, painstakingly quiet movement, Nick opens the door, slithering his long, green body inside mutely. David tails Nick, slowly crawling in with only the faint sound of sloshing splashes. 

The two get inside completely, but then they hear a _fwump_ sound. Looking back, they see Roger’s sides get caught between the door frame. Roger’s back legs push, as he puffs to get his huge body unstuck. Nick takes his eyes off Roger and instead gazes inside the house while the horse struggles. His eyes see clearly inside, and what he sees sends eerie chills up his spine. The house isn’t too cold, isn’t too hot, but it still manages to make Nick get the feeling of ice trickle up his back and hug his chest tightly, refusing to let go. 

He expected the house to be in disarray, it was only natural. He was getting more and more used to it, as bad as it was to say. It was not nearly as bad as Roger’s home, no, not by far. The room was more comparable to David’s home, where the demolition was in one confined path. But instead of a clean shot to the bathroom as in the merman’s case, the ruination was taken out nearly entirely on the walls. It wasn’t too harsh, at first glance at least. But as Nick strayed closer, he got progressively more and more worried. The walls were now decorated in huge, lengthy cuts. They were jagged and made in cramped rows. Some were bigger than others, and some were very small, only inches wide. Some were close to the ground, and others towered almost as tall as Roger. But in hindsight, it wasn’t so bad at all. In fact, the thing that took the most damage had to have been the sofa. It’s rich, dark leather was lacerated in rows of five long, deep marks, pillows disintegrated to shreds. Stuffing and feathers had been strewn everywhere like new fallen snow upon the carpet. Nick glances at the clock, which sits sideways, tilted ticking on the wall. 6:45. He notices the windows, barricaded by large, heavy red curtains. How they were torn from top to bottom, and how they dance gently in the air that sweeps in from the door. 

Suddenly the two heads whip around once again to Roger’s direction, hearing loud creaking. They watch him stumble into the home awkwardly, his bowl-like hooves tripping over one another. He falls to his front knees, his back legs still holding his lower body stiffly, two black columns. It was an extremely awkward pose. Roger quickly corrects himself, cheeks and ears tinted red. All the while, Roger is looking down his torso with utter repulsion. Nick looks back to the door, noticing some considerable damage. The once straight and narrow doorway was now curved outwards, it was even cracked in the slightest. 

“Didn’t mean to do that,” Roger grumbles lowly. He squints around the room, hands cupping his eyes. “Where’s the fuckin’ light? Can’t see nothin’.” 

Nick, confused for only a second, realizes something he hadn’t thought about. His vision, now that he had thought about it, did seem clearer, and more detailed. It must have heightened, he decides, unlike Roger’s. After all, he was seeing better and better in the dark. It was almost as if instead of complete blackness, the lights were only dimmed slightly. Out of courtesy, Nick slithers to the nearby hallway, and by extension, the light switch. He flicks it on half-mindedly, turning on the hall light. Yellow fluorescent beams light up the house, and in the back of his mind, Nick has a feeling he shouldn’t have done that. 

He suddenly hears his name being whimpered by David’s trembling voice. Nick’s head snaps to the merman’s attention and David’s spiked, outstretched arm shakes, pointing directly behind the drummer, down the hall. Nick bites his tongue, closing his eyes. He isn’t prepared for this, not one bit. But he forces his head to turn in the direction of where David’s finger points to, opening his green eyes ever so slowly. He thinks this is too much like so many nightmares he’s had as a child to be real, because right at the end of the hallway, a large dark form stands like a cold stone statue. Its yellow eyes remain unblinking, staring right at Nick, right into his chest. Nick’s heart is caught in his throat, he feels paralyzed. 

All three stare at the thing in fear, no one dares to make a sound, a movement, a blink, a cough. Its presence seems to make the room get hot, sweaty, but at the same time, it sends chills that bite with no remorse onto their shoulder blades. Nick begins to wonder if that thing is actually real, or not some sick joke, a stuffed figure brought up from the basement as for early Halloween decoration. But his mind quickly blanks, as the thing opens its large, fanged jaws, and it lets out a low, deep, horrible growl in warning. Nick sees David’s form quiver and jump at the sound from the corner of his eye, but his main focus is that animal in front of him. White foaming drool snakes out its chops and pools onto the floor. Its glowing amber eyes stare at Nick, they are tainted on him, targeting him. But it does not move whatsoever.

David starts to back up, using quick, stiff moments, he’s obviously very frightened. And Nick is sure David didn’t mean to trigger that monster, whatever it was, to charge at him. 

Nick can only watch as that huge animal speeds past him, making Nick crash into the wall. The huge hairy nightmare races for a yelling David, and using its huge front paws, as big as a human head, it pins David to the ground. David lands onto his back hard, stunning him and the form above him. 

Suddenly, the fast pace of the night turns slow, as if everything before Nick’s eyes are freezing. David screams as the monster crashes into him and pins into the ground. The impact stuns them both for a moment. He sees huge jaws stop their snapping, open impossibly wide. They are filled with rows upon rows of dagger-like pearly triangular teeth. They drip foamy saliva onto the ground, onto David. The merman’s eyes are staring still into the mouth of the demon, his arm is raised to try and feebly block any attack. He doesn’t realize he is about to lose his arm to those very same snapping chops.

Nick’s mind is blank, entirely empty except for one huge impulse of protection. He springs forward, slapping the beast just in time with his huge tail, like a whip. His body smacks the hairy beast on its side, slamming it against the adjacent wall with a shrill whine. It shakes itself, regaining its stonelike stance, staring at them. Its burly chest heaves, and it angrily snarls at the three other monsters. Nick and Roger rise to their full heights, putting out their chests and preparing themselves for anything that thing might do. David regains his sitting position, breathing heavily as he clutches his chest, lingering behind the snake and centaur.

The fanged form lowers itself onto the ground as if preparing to leap at one of their throats. Roger quickly rears, and slams his whole weight onto the floor, making the foundation of the house shake in tremors. As he came down on top the ground, Roger leans his torso forward. His fists are clenched, and he’s so close to the monster that was about to tear off David’s very limb. But then he opens his mouth, and a sound no man had ever heard before sprang from deep in Roger’s throat. A deep, demonic roar. Nick, David and even the beast before them quiver and shrink at the sound. The animal whined and lowered its head to the ground, a shrill whimper escaping it as its clawed paws scratch at its ears to stop the noise. It snaps its jaws uselessly, tripping over its own feet until it backs into the corner in a hairy heap, hiding its face. Finally, Roger becomes mute once more. 

After the great outburst that escaped Roger’s lungs, the world seems to stop itself. Everyone is still getting over the aftershock of the event, the great beast included. The whole house was too scared, too frightened, too shocked to move. Instead of heated hatred, a wave of unwilling rest settles over the four beings in the room. There is only the sound of nearby birds, tree frogs, crickets from outside. It seemed all too peaceful, too still. Heartbeats were slowing, muscles relaxing ever so slowly as the clock can still be heard ticking brokenly. 

Nick takes the time to gawk at the sight before him. The figure that lies at the three’s feet inhales and exhales deeply, making a rumbling sound as it breathes. Its long, pointed ears lie flat against its soft, hard head. Heavy eyes dart around the room frantically, it never looks at one place for over a second. Then its eyes will close tight for a few seconds, only to open up and repeat the routine. Nick notes how fragile it looks. It is strong, he never thought it wasn’t strong. It ripples with muscle and power under its coat of fur. But yet, there is an aura around it. The monster looks strange, as if its body was shattered and pieced back together again in an unorganized, twisted fashion. Its heavy head looks like a canine, with a wide, black nose and long, toothy muzzle. The thing’s limbs are strange, foreign. Especially long, built up with hard muscle, but very gangly. As if could trot and gallop on all fours just as Roger could, and yet still work as a biped. All four of its large paws are padded back and clawed, but its front appendages appeared…

_No, it couldn’t._ Nick thought. He could almost swear it had thumbs. Nick tilts his head, puzzled. But his eyes are suddenly blinded as they catch rays of gold streaming in from the severed curtains. The sunrise. 

Nick breaks the silence with a sigh. “We’ve been up all night,” He states. “Look, it's bloody daylight already.” He tells the centaur and the merman, looking out into the world from the holes in the red drapes. His friends follow in this fashion. Even the huge furry beast freezes, muscles horribly rigid. 

It stands, stiffly, on its long legs, letting its front paws dangle low. It's smart, wide, staring eyes gaze to the golden orb rising into the sky from above the distant timberline. It seems to grow dizzy, knees buckling as it sways from side to side. Then its unbalanced weight makes it lean to the side, and collapse to the floor, making a great sudden wind from under it. The three tame monsters all make surprised noises, but only one crawls to the beast’s now heaving side. 

“Dave, wait!” Roger whispers in an urgent, protective tone. David ignores him, already looking quite frantically into the demon’s pain-contorted face. David begins to gently pet its furry cheek, stroking down its neck as a metamorphosis takes place before their wide and staring eyes. The monster begins to shrink, its fur disappearing into pale flesh, its muzzle forms away and it's paws shrivel up. Nick sees what he had worried about the entire time, as now Rick lie pale, weak, and bare before the three, bathed in the golden light of morning.


	6. Morning

David Gilmour’s drying hand now brushes against hot skin. He had known. Known all along that the hulking wolf figure before him was none other than his best friend. He had realized it was the pianist when he was inches from Rick’s face, snarling and drooling, with wide jaws that held a tongue that ached for guitarist blood. It was in the little details that he had seen his old friend. The way he would scrunch up his nose in a growl, how the sides of his mouth would form lines. Or his eyes, heavy and calm like they always had been, and at the same time teaming with an uncontrollable energy. David had even noticed Rick’s tell-tale long, thick lashes for another matter. 

David’s heart had sank so low into the pit of his stomach when he realized all of this. When he put all the pieces together like a misfigured puzzle. And now he was struck with sorrow and feelings of pity for the limp figure under his hand. Gingerly, he cradles the pianist's head, pushing away the tight feeling that’s strangling his throat. He runs his hands over Rick’s soft, tangled hair, holding him close to his chest. Though he doesn’t want them to, the memories of long, knife-like white teeth inches away from his face scour his mind. Rick was so close to tearing off his arm.

Those horrible daggered molars that could once shred iron were now small, unable to bring harm. Although, David notes that Wright’s canines are pointed through a mouth agape, small warm breaths emitting. Harmless. Gentle. Calm. No one would ever dream that Rick, just seconds ago, was a malicious wolf. David would never have thought Rick would be a werewolf. No one did. Werewolves were too viscous, too scary, too evil to ever plague Rick’s body. David admits to himself that the criteria for being this mythical beast better fitted the bassist. Rick? Not so much. But it was.

On the rare occasion, Rick’s eyes would open heavily, as if a great weight was tied to the lids. Milky white sphere shown only, as his irises lolled into his skull. His body would convulse slowly, arching and tightening and growing hard only to fall limp again, his eyes closing wearily. It was like watching a seizure in slow-motion. Rick seemed so tired. So worn. David wonders what it would have been like, the transition from human to beast. Did it hurt his as his own transformation had? The guitarist suspects it would have been worse. He can only imagine the pain and the fear, he knows it does not match what truly occurred just hours before.

Roger breaks the silence, his voice a little higher than usual. “Are we going to ignore what just happened?” He asks, stepping closer to the two in quiet embrace. 

David answers with a stern, wizened tone in his voice. “No.” He says, eyes still lowered to the quavering pianist in his arms. “Let’s take this one slow for once, Roger.” David is very tired, very worn. He has not time to argue as Roger wants. David just wished to have peace.

The bass player opposes, his lip curled in a sneer. “He almost ripped your arm from you!” He says in a normal volume, but there was an urgent pessimistic persistence in his words. “What, have you gone insane?”

Before David could utter a word in retaliation, Nick steps into the conversation boldly. “Now, wait a minute…” He says in a low, calming voice, arm outstretched as if to lower the tension of the room in a motion of his hand. Roger stops Nick by clopping his foot in the drummer’s path. 

“Rick is fine, why are we still like this?” He cuts in. Then he trudges to the window, pulling the curtains off their rods and letting them drop in a huff of dust. The bright gleam of morning blinds the drummer and guitarist. But although Roger wanted the warm light to transform him just as it had with Rick, he did not get his wish. 

Nick pities Roger. “Do you really think that witch would curse us for only one night?” He asks, shielding his eyes from the sun. His words are slow and calm, but also saddened. A part of him, too, hoped that morning would bring his old body back.

But however calm, cool and collective Nick is, Roger always manages to suck in all the hatred of the room for himself and use it against everyone else. “Don’t mention that old wench!” He snarls, blowing hot air from his nose. He spat out the last word, it was too foul and bitter for his liking. 

Somehow David drowns the two out, his focus solely on Rick. Wright’s body has now grown cold in David’s care. He tenderly tucks a strand of stray hair behind Rick’s ear, but his finger feels something alien. Seeing for himself, David notices that both of Rick’s ears are pointed at their tips. A cold chill races down David’s spine, and leaves him sweating in a slight panic. Rick begins to let out groans, low gluttonous whimpers that rake out his sore throat. His hands clutch his chest, fingers curled lightly, knotting themselves. Not knowing what else he could do, the merman holds Rick closer, softly whispering out soothing words of nonsense, hoping they would calm the werewolf. Suddenly Rick’s eyes open wide, he looks up to the younger that holds him. 

“D-” He chokes out. He can’t even get out one letter before his voice cracks, then silence. His eyes roll into his head, making David very uneasy, until they close and his head once again drops limply in David’s strong hand. 

The merman worries. Rick seems so weightless, so light. So cold. For a split second, a scary thought occurs. Had Rick just died? His face gets hot and his eyes begin to sting, but he relaxes once Rick lets out a heavy sigh, and leans his head into David’s torso. He can feel those warm little puffs of breath on his scales, Rick’s soft brown tresses brushing against him, and it warms his heart. The moment is broken by the long, loud sound of thunder-like rumbling in his stomach. David, pink-faced in embarrassment, looks up to Nick and Roger. The two stare down at him with concerned yet comical expressions. 

David chuckles nervously. “I, um, suppose I haven't had anything since the carnival." He admits, licking his lips tediously.

Even Roger agrees to the guitarist’s idea. "Breakfast sounds good." Roger hums to himself. He turns, clopping happily to the direction of the kitchen. Until Nick stops him.

Nick crosses himself, blocking Roger’s path. “Oh no you don’t.” He says, glaring at the centaur before him accusingly. “If you touch something in there then we’re going to have even less to eat.” he criticizes. 

Roger swishes his tail, hearing a challenge. “Alright then, earthworm.” He grins maliciously at the smaller. “Whip us up a nice big breakfast with that green straw of a body you have in the way, show me how it’s done.”  
Nick’s face reddens, and coiling himself up, he rises to Roger’s full height. “Fine, I will!” He says, raising his voice. There is a certain power in being tall, Nick realizes.

“Fine.” Roger says smoothly, rising his brows as he smirks. He had only said that so he could have the last word, he will admit. But Nick backs off, and Roger watches him from under long bangs. Nick sways gracefully into the kitchen, gathering supplies with both his arms and his tail with flowing movements. 

Opening the refrigerator, Nick’s face brightens. “We have at our disposal: apples, eggs…” He names, placing items in his arms. Then he pulls out a drawer, and smiles. “Ah, bacon!” He closes the cold door, placing the items on the countertop. “I do hope Rick wasn’t planning on using these for something important.” 

Soon enough, Nick has the meat sizzling. The savory aroma drifts from the kitchen to the whole house, even reaching David and Roger. David is still in his cradling position, Rick still in his arms, but Roger has somewhat awkwardly gotten into a lying-down position after trying to sit on his rear and carrying it off as “ungraceful”. The warm, homey scent of breakfast makes David drool. Roger decides to go into the kitchen, as he put it, “...to make sure the garden snake doesn’t burn the house”. David doesn’t argue. 

Roger enters as Nick begins to flip the meat strips. He looks happily over his shoulder to the approaching centaur. “Hey Roger, would eating pig be considered cannibalism for you?” 

Roger’s ears get red. “Fuck off.” He grumbles shortly. Nick still grins, in retaliation of the unorthodox nickname Roger had called him earlier. Nick was prepared to return the favour, and he laughs at Roger’s next question: “You’re still making me breakfast, right?” 

David hears the bell-like sounds of giggling from his place on the floor, and smiles at it. It’s good for the band to still be able to smile after everything that happened. But the thoughts of the night prior quickly flee as Rick stirs, moving his head in the direction of the kitchen as his nose sniffs the air. The keyboardist practically rolls out of David’s grasp, and trudges in an unbalanced fashion into the kitchen, the smell leading him blindly. It's as if Rick’s legs are made of gelatin, and he walks pathetically and ungracefully towards the source of the smell. His eyes are shut lightly, and David fears Rick might walk right into something, but then David watches curiously as Rick crouches, and then begin to walk on all four of his appendages. It is very bizarre, how naturally Rick can adjust to the quadrupedal gait, as if he were once again a ravenous wolf. Rick is getting nearer and nearer to the two in the kitchen and David scrambles to stop the pianist from reaching them. But as soon as Rick begins to stand up again to his two feet, but he falls onto something large, long, dry and warm. 

Luckily Rick isn’t hurt, but he does pause. With difficulty, he cracks both his eyes open in the slightest. Unable to identify what he’s currently draped over, his lethargic gaze trails curiously and confusedly up the long, green muscular appendage, all the way up to Nick’s frozen stance. Rick’s eyes widen to the size of saucers, and then he notices movement to Nick’s left, His eyes are set on a massive black horse with Roger’s torso attached to it, and Rick feels like he’s suddenly been transported into a world of nightmares. Both his deformed friends look back to the pianist worriedly, and Roger takes a shaky step back. Rick slowly rises to his feet, not taking his eyes off the two monsters before him. Backing up, he runs into David. Rick spins around stiffly, to see a large, spiky mass that looks like the guitarist, gingerly waving hello at him. Rick cries out shakily, jumping away and back onto all fours. David feels like it must be instinct for him now.

“Christ!” He exclaims, looking from David to Roger, and from Roger to Nick, and then back to David. He recoils, hand brushing over his icy cold leg. He becomes aware that his leg, or the rest of his body for that matter, is not covered, and he looks down at himself in hysterics. “What the fuck?!”

An alarmed David pleads, trying to keep his fins as low and flat on his body as possible. “Rick!” He says, in a loud but soothing voice, “Calm down, it's okay!”

“Okay?!” Rick shoots back, flabbergasted by David’s words. “I’m naked! You’re a bleeding fish! Nick’s a lizard for Christ’s sake!” He shouts, motioning to each. But he pauses for a split second when he reaches Waters. His mind is still scattered and slow from lack of sleep. “And Rog is… what, a unicorn?”

Nick snorts loudly, and almost burns his arm on the hot stove. Both David and Roger cover their mouths to keep from snickering, though Roger feels highly insulted. Rick probably had not meant to say "unicorn", it was most likely the first thing that came into his lethargic mind. 

David looks over to the snake giddily. “I suppose I owe you a shilling then, Nicky.” He giggles out, and that causes all three of the monsters to burst out with obnoxious laughter. Nick has to lean himself over the counter to keep from falling over, his happy convulsions rippling down his tail in waves. All Rick can do is stare, confused and unaware of the joke the three others share. 

David looks over to the scared, unaware heap huddles in the corner. His webbed hands wring together nervously as he looks to the two standing, so they get the hint. Subsequently, they do, and the good-natured feeling of the house dies down. The merman sighs, dropping his head for a moment, and then picks himself up to look at Rick. He dares to inch closer.

“What would be that last thing you can remember?” He asks calmly, watching as the older rubs his eyes with the palms of shaking hands tiredly. 

Rick takes his hands from his face, and stares at them a moment before answering. “I was just about to go to bed for the night…” His tired eyes flash stress, and he whips his head to look at the guitarist. “I’m still dreaming, aren’t I?” He seems so worried, but convinced that this was a nightmare. So sure of himself that his mind was just telling a lie, a far-fetched tale. It hurt them all to know the truth. 

The three monsters look at each other with sharp, worried glances. But only Nick is able to speak. “Rick, the curse was real. Look what happened to us.” He says bluntly, calmly. He figures the cold-hard truth would be best for the situation. He tries to slither closer, tries to help ease the piano player into realization and out of denial. But he only succeeds in making Rick press his whole small weight against the wall.

“Don’t touch me!” He snaps, curling himself into a small ball so tight. His eyes are still wide, still frantic. He tries to lie to himself. “Everything last night was simply just smoke and mirrors! I happen to know I’m dreaming!” He states to the jury, three of his best friends turned into misshapen monsters. 

Roger scoffs, a surprise to the drummer and the merman. “Oh, please! We’ve been up all through the night, all over this damned city, and me, with a fucked leg!” He glares daggers toward David for a split second, but continues to spew and rant. “That carnie hag did this to all of us, it’s her fault!” His head sways angrily, hot breath firing out his nostrils. His tail swishes violently and his good leg stomps the ground, pounding against the carpet. 

The small form, still huddled against the safety of the kitchen wall, takes a moment to absorb all that Roger had just stated. His blue eyes also happen to glimpse at the bandaged leg, where dried blood mats the soft fur as it trembles under Roger’s huge weight. Rick is all but speechless for once in his life. 

“Wait a minute,” He says softer, more like himself. “If we’re all cursed, then…” He looks to everyone. Right in their eyes and it hurts them all. “What about me? I’m not a -” He tries to gesture at his strange-bodied friends. He stops himself. 

He watches as Roger leans toward Nick, whispering hard words into a drummer’s keen ear. Then the keyboardist glares scaredly as Nick rather gracefully slithers to David, again whispering the secret message. David looks to both the snake and the horse, thinking to himself. David ponders for a moment, thinking back on the night. He remembers he nearly killed them in a water-waned rage. He knows how badly he hurt Roger. His friend, his colleague. Everyone in the room knew about what had happened that night. All except for Rick. Rick had no control, he could and most likely would transform again. They needed to take the necessary protective precautions. 

And so David nods at Nick, who nods at Roger. Nick sighs, and stands to his normal height. His tired green eyes turn to Rick. His friend. His accomplice. Since forever ago, it seemed. And Rick was so clueless. And so knowing. A walking contradiction to what life had set rules for. But he was all this and more in the best way possible. 

“Rick, you only look normal right now because you’re cursed to be a werewolf.”


	7. Thorns

Everyone was situated around the living room, eating what hadn’t been overdone by Nick’s distracted hand. Most of it was the untouched apples, though the determined drummer sat curled and sprawled wildly on the still broken couch, making a point by eating his extra-cooked eggs and bacon. Roger lie down in his conventional, civilized way, focusing himself only to the task of eating. David had propped himself in the corner, drinking water and having a few slabs of meat for himself. Every once in awhile, they stole glances to the now clothed and blanket swaddled pianist, sitting in the middle of the room and eating one simple red apple. 

Rick dared not touch any meat. Just looking at it set his stomach off, it repulsed him and drove him to gag. His eyes were low, focusing on nothing but the intricate pattern of the quilt he had wrapped himself in. But he did have to admit to himself, even eating felt so strange, so foreign. It was as if his mouth was far too big for himself, too crowded. His teeth ached and practically screamed for soothing, but Rick pushed the feeling away. His mind was numb. He looked to the new bite he had taken out of the fruit, a exposing a hunk of white, sweet meat that drizzles red with crimson smears. He notes how deep his teeth marks go in, how big the bite was. And how small the piece of fruit he chews feels in his mouth. He swallows, putting an index finger to his sore gums. His finger comes out caked in reddened sticky saliva. 

He wipes the blood off, uncaring, and cradles the weight of his headache ridden face in the palm of his large hand. Everyone said he was a beast, forced to come out only at night. And now even a human body, or something relatively close to it, felt neither unfamiliar nor comfortable. He did not like this. This idea that he was truly a huge, hairy, blood-craving wolf, coupled with the fact that even his friends before him were now truly horrid monsters. But, even though they looked horrible, they were really still themselves. They did not lose their minds and become savage. Only Rick did. And now these people, good people, good friends, had been subject to Rick at his worst. It was Rick’s punishment to become the center of attention from a life of being a quiet-minded wallflower. He takes another bite of the fruit, hanging onto the only sweet thing he has left: the sugary taste. He didn’t want to believe in anything any longer. He had lost the rest of his hope.

“Want anything more to eat, Richard? I believe there is still some bacon left.” David suggests. Caution is heavy in his slow speech. The sudden burst of words does nothing to shake Rick from his scattered, sharp thoughts. 

Rick takes his time answering, and when it comes, it is short. “No.” He says, still staring into the apple as if something was about to spring forth from the bite marks. 

It makes David, especially of the three, uncomfortable. “Oh, that’s fine, then…” A labored laugh emits from the guitarist's place of rest. Unsuccessful in his try to lighten the mood, David continues to speak. His words are like water, wet and sad. “You sure you’re feeling up and alright?” 

Rick’s answer, again, is short. His eyes wander down the blanket, focusing on the stitches. “Yes.” 

David tries once more, desperate for conversation. “Do you want to talk about anything that’s happened?” 

“No.” 

It is almost as if Rick can feel everyone’s emotions like one can feel the touch of a hand on their skin. None of his bandmates accept his one-word responses. Especially not a certain bass player, who flips his long, glossy black tail, adding to his aura of irritability, annoyance. It all feels so heavy, so tight around Rick’s lungs. It was suffocating. 

Roger snorts and Rick braces himself for an attack of sharp, hot words. “Well, I don’t quite know about the rest of you lot,” The bassist begins, his voice bitter and sarcastic. “But I believe I surely can grow to truly love this new version of our Rick. So helpful and sensible!” He flips the stray hairs that rest on his shoulders off and away, so Rick is sure to see his green eyes stare daggers into his soul. Rick knows he should be scared, and yet, he isn’t. He feels ready for the rest of the verbal assault. 

But David prevents another attack. The long-haired guitarist is immediately at Rick’s side, his fins wide and spread out. He crawls so that he is in-between the centaur and the werewolf, shielding both opposing sides from seeing one another. 

“Don’t you fucking start another one of these monologues,” He growls, raising an accusing clawed finger at the blackened Waters. “I can assure you that we are all miserable, Roger. So just simply piss off!” 

Rick, as much as he hated to admit it, was grateful for this action. It seemed like Roger only wanted to retort and attack David now, but he shut his large-lipped mouth and proceeded to stare down a wall on the other side of the room. It wasn’t an acceptable substitute for the band members Roger was ready to lash out at, but even Roger tired of arguing every once in awhile. Silence, dreadful and cold, fills the house again. It wasn’t a long reign. Shortly after, Nick’s brow knits in thought, quickly picking his head up. He looks all around the room, biting his lip in concentration, fingers rubbing the sleeve of his shirt.

“I feel as if we’ve forgotten something.” He states, consulting no one in particular. He looks at the other three, and they all look back to him, just as confused and lost. David shrugs, shaking his head. But suddenly the black-haired drummer’s eyes grow large, then squeeze shut. His green tail coils tightly, his face falls into his hands, and he mutters, barely loud enough to hear, “Syd. We’ve forgotten about Syd.”

Of course, arguments followed. That was how the band worked nowadays. With sharpened words and accusations, scoldings, and stares. About ten minutes later, the end result showed that Nick, accompanied by Rick, would drive to Syd’s home, check on the guitarist, and possibly bring him back. Nick was fine with this, he would just stay in the van while Rick would hop out and fetch the piper, lest he is at risk of being seen. He wanted to get out of the house anyway, there was too much anger. Rick was glad to get away as well, especially with Nick of all people. The drummer always held good company. 

“Oh, finally, I can drive at the speed limit.” Nick mutters, letting Rick get in the passenger seat before the painstakingly precise way of arrangement Nick had to endure occurred. Nick was always the designated driver anyway, this was an unspoken ritual between all of them. Nick liked cars most, he was the best driver by far, of course, he would drive. They had made the horrible mistake of letting Syd drive once. It never happened again.

Rick is puzzled by Nick’s words, however. Confused, he gingerly asks for a clear explanation as Nick’s long tail drapes over the dashboard and over Rick’s lap. Rick doesn’t mind it a bit, but he notices how heavy it is, how big. Out of courtesy, he doesn't touch it, just lets it lie there. Finally, Nick is situated, and as they pull out of the gravel strip of the driveway, Nick tells the pianist the tedious journey of driving with Roger. Occasionally Rick will let out a small giggle, smile or bob his head. But once Nick stops his speech, Rick says nothing.

After about two minutes of stories, the only sound is the wind outside and the crunch of the roadway on tires. Rick allows himself to look out the window, to the trees and the greenery outside. As his eyes sweep heavily over the redundant scene, he can’t help but catch his reflection in the side view mirror. He stares at the face that stares back. He does not look like himself, his features were…different. Off. Twisted. Deformed. Rick hurriedly pulls down the vanity mirror, attracting some of the attention of the driving drummer. The piano player pays no attention to green-eyed stares, though, as he inspects himself. He found that if he were to move his head, his eyes would flash gold, then turn back blue. He decides it must have been the glinting of the sun, no more, no less. Then he notices how his ears stick out from his hair, how they were pointed at the tips. But weren’t they always this way? Of course they were. It was genetic. His mother’s side. Slowly, he dares to open his mouth. He notices how crooked they look, how sharpened they seem. He must be grinding his teeth in his sleep. He makes a mental note to tell his dentist. 

Rick hopelessly flips the mirror up and slumps into his seat. There is no longer the comfort of seclusion, no more trees or forest. There were tall brick buildings, looming lampposts, crowds of people. So many clashing colors. The van slows down and then parks as Nick pulls into Syd’s driveway. 

Suddenly a hand is on Rick’s shoulder, a calloused thumb sinking gently into Rick’s taught muscles. It feels good. “Well, there’s your cue ol’ chap,” Nick says, and Rick turns his head to see the drummer smiling, the very picture of support. But Rick finds there is an uneasy scent in the air, and as it goes through his nose, the only way he can describe it is with the word fear. A thought occurred to him, a surprising one he almost pushes out completely. _He can smell fear._

Rick gets out of the van in a slow daze, gently setting Nick’s green tail back on top the seat before he swung his legs out of the open door. His boots crunch leaves under them, they clank when they hit hard cement. He is surprised he can hear these things so clearly. Not only what is under his feet, but more. He hears all the people down the street, conversing with one another, he hears their exact words. Their own footsteps. He can swear he hears a bird flap its wings as it sails over the tops of houses and stores. But hadn’t he always had a keen ear? Well, of course, he did. He was in a band of perfectionists. Of course he could always hear well. There was nothing new about this, he tells himself.

Rick makes himself walk up to Syd’s home, a small two-story rented flat. The outside was as vibrant as the rest of this city. Yellow, bright and happy was the color that made the walls. Syd had taken a pencil, sometimes his paints, and had made the outside walls on the porch his practice canvas. Some were small, detailed stick figures with instruments that served to be reminders of specific times with his band. Others were intricate patterns, swirls and lines and hatch marks. They all adorned the wall that faced the earth as if to say “look at me!”. And many people did. Some people would go right up to Syd’s door and gawk at the sketches. Syd quickly figured out he did not like the attention and was driven to always lock the door and purchase blinds. He never did go out and watch the traffic like he used to after that. 

As Rick raps his knuckles gently on the door in knocking, he notices nothing about the outside of Syd’s home seems strange at all. It isn’t clean, by all means. Syd neglected to even sweep his porch or maintain the woodwork. Paint chipped and even some of his precious drawings became smeared. The porch was adorned in a fine layer of dirt, dust, and leaves. There was only a small line, from stairs to door that did not have such filth. Rick noticed he must have waited a minute by now, and no one was answering. That was strange. Normally, Syd was as a small puppy, anxious to open the door to see which friend was there to see him, happily bouncing as he unlocked the knob. But not today. He walks off the porch, to the metal gates that made a path to Syd’s home and surrounded it like a prison. He leans against the cold iron, trying to peek in a window. They are all shut, curtains drawn tight. Another anomaly. Syd loved the sunshine, at least the second story windows were always open. Rick trudges back up to the door and knocks, but he waits even longer than before. No one answers. 

He turns, facing the van. Nick is practically pressed against the window, staring right at Rick. Nick shrugs, just as confused at the pianist. Rick taps his foot against the wood porch and walks down the creaking stairs. He started to follow the fence to the back of the house. Halfway there, his path is blocked by a large wooden fence. It belonged to a neighbor, but Syd had made his iron fence to run alongside it. There was no way under or through. There was only over. Rick takes a few steps back, looking above the top of the wood. He charges at it, and in one bounding leap, he sails high above the obstacle. He plops down on top the ground heavily, but unscathed. Rick suddenly feels fear creep up his back like a fire. How on earth had he done that? That gate had to have been seven feet in height. Rick ponders his feat, staring up at the wall. He remembers he had taken a gym class in high school. He must have kept some of that same muscle he had built during his schoolboy days, he decides. 

Walking along the surprisingly well-kept grass, flowers stalk the fence that lines Syd’s yard. Rick notes how healthy they look, so in bloom and vibrant. It was a wonder that Syd could keep them so healthy this late in the season. Rick walks up to the screen door, trying to open it. No luck, it is locked tightly. Rick huffs in defeat, looking around the yard for something, anything. He checks under potted plants and above the door for a key. Still nothing. Rick looks up, and he spots the windows. One is open, the curtains flying on the outside, dancing in the wind. The top window, the one to the attic.

Rick notices the large ivy vine that crawls up the brick. He tries to grab at it, expecting the plant to scrape off of the brick and fall limply into the grass, but that does not happen. The ivy’s vines are thick, it has the width of two of Rick’s fingers put together. It grasps at the brick, holding on with a grip of iron. Rick looks back up to the window and begins to scale the wall. He uses both the uneven bricks and the vine to help him up, he uses his strength he had told himself he had kept from his past physical education class to climb shakily, a scared spider up a foreign web. He reaches the small, square window, grasping the sill with both hands. He pulls himself inside to see blackness and breathe dust.

His very own presence within the house scares him. He feels as if he is being watched, being hunted. A cruel turn of the tables, it is now the wolf being stalked. How small he feels, so powerless. He just hopes that if there is anything truly on the prowl for him, it isn’t whatever Syd has become. Rick is crouched on the ground, studying his surroundings vigilantly. He is situated in a small storage room, scattered with paints, easels, and canvases. There is a hallway, a narrow one, right ahead of him. It had no light coming out of it whatsoever, though because of the still rising sun in the open window, a small patch of light illuminates a path for the pianist. 

Rick walks forward on all fours, he doesn’t even notice he’s doing this anymore, as he makes his way towards that hallway. He had to find the guitarist, bring him back. How frightened Barrett must be. He hopes Syd didn’t think that this was a hallucination, Rick has heard of some people getting out a knife and convert themselves up into lamb cutlets because of LSD. What if Syd did the same to his own transformation? All of these thoughts set Rick on edge, and suddenly his hand brushes against a paintbrush that was strewn on the floor. Rick’s immediate reaction made him jump up to his two feet, eyes scouring the room quickly for some big, black, inky monster with claws aimed right for Rick’s throat. Rick’s cheeks burn red with embarrassment and realization when he picks up the small utensil. 

Disregarding the artist’s belonging, Rick patterns his way deeper into the hallway. Space seems to get tighter and more compact as Rick walks. The corridor gets darker and darker until the blindness encases Rick entirely. The pianist moves ever so slowly, forcing himself to make no sound. He is in constant fear of tripping into something-furniture or whatever else might be in the home. He hopes that ‘whatever else’ wouldn’t be Syd. Rick wouldn’t know what to do if his friend were to think for even a moment about hurting him. But that fear quickly goes away, as his eyes adjust almost instantly to the darkness. He can see perfectly.

 _No, no, I can’t see in the dark..._ He reminds himself. Perhaps he just remembered where everything in Syd’s house was. That had to be it. He remembers the smear of pink paint right there on the corner of the wall, the broken light bulb on the ceiling. Yes, he even remembered there was Syd’s painting of a rooster in the middle of the hall of the left wall. There it was, right before Rick now. Red and green and brown and black lines. Rick still couldn’t make out any rooster, but that was what Syd had called it. A little red rooster. Rick runs his fingers against the dried paints. Its texture is rough, it has deep crevices where the paint has dried. It vaguely reminds Rick of a tree trunk. And yet that paint is soft on his skin. It feels good to touch it, but Rick fears he will ruin it. He puts his hand down to his side. 

But then he sees something he doesn’t remember about the painting. A small leaf, dangling on the top left corner. It looks as if it is still growing, green and fresh, and that ivy leaf looks too real to have been conjured by Syd’s messy hands. Rick touched it himself, he finds it to be very soft and very real. He traces it up to where it connects with the rest of the vine. Rick's eyes map it going out of the hallway and out the window sill, back to where it began to grow on the ground. Rick's eyes go back, where it grows into the hallway, above the painting, and down the corridor. It does not stop, from what he can see.

He doesn't know why on earth Syd allowed this. Yes, Syd loved gardening and flowers, but allowing plants to infest his own home? That was a bit extreme. It makes Rick feel uneasy about his bandmate. No one he knew would allow this. Perhaps Syd had just forgotten to come up to his attic in a long time? Syd probably didn't even know about the ivy vine growing up this far. Rick makes a mental note to tell him once he finds the frizzy-haired guitarist. Or he was until he smells something that makes his mind blank. It is the strangest aroma, and it's like Rick can't get enough of it. His nose is tainted right on where the smell is coming from, sniffing frantically. He walks toward the source blindly, his ears strain to hear anything, anything at all, and he does catch something. Buzzing? Was that buzzing he hears? He would have to investigate to make certain. He walks at turtle’s gait to the end of the hallway, eyes unmoving off his destination. He is put on edge, muscles tense and senses heightened. He is ready to either fight or flight. 

As Rick slowly shifts his small weight on top the stairs, he notices something at the bottom. Small and luminescent blue, it is impossible to miss. Rick silently trots to it, and he notices that the same strange clumps litter the walls. The darkened house, contrasted only by the glowing blue glows of globs faintly reminded Rick of a clear night sky. The blue substance is speckled practically everywhere. He gets closer to what he thinks is a small patch, but he grows uneasy as he realises that the "small patch" is actually a cluster of hundreds of the tiny things. Frightened, he transverses to trot on all fours, mainly out of instinct. This position calms him, strangely enough. Rick clambers to a nearby wall, inspecting the strange glowing things. He realises that the mysterious thing is actually some kind of a goo, it runs down the walls like watercolour. Rick grows curious. He reaches for it with a shaky hand. Part of him fears that even one touch of skin to this goop would sizzle and eat at his skin like toxic acid. But he makes himself touch it, and thankfully, nothing heinous occurs. The consistency is thick and glue-like, surprisingly warm. 

Rick looks back to the rest of stairs he must walk down, realizing that more goo covers the walls, practically the entire lower half of the house. Rick has no idea if he should be fearful of this, or frightened. But he does realize that whatever this was, this sickly sweet smelling goo, was what has attacked his nose so. It smelt like nothing he had ever been introduced to. He didn’t know if it was a good thing, why he seemed so attracted to it. Rick shakes the feeling out of his system, and continues down the stairs. He didn’t get far-a huge blob squished under Rick’s shoe.

Rick suddenly felt the need to take off his footwear, Syd never allowed shoes to be worn in his home. The guitarist was only picky about a few choice things - art, music, fashion, and house rules. The biggest rule he was always sure to enforce was that nothing must be worn on your feet once you entered his abode. Syd had some nutty OCD about it; he was big on being barefoot. So out of courtesy, Rick removed both his boots and socks. He presses his feet uneasily to the ground. For some odd reason or another, an aching sore enveloped in his toes and soles. His bones hurt the most, he feels like they had once been modeling clay that had perhaps dried too fast, put together too hastily. But he, too, shakes off this feeling. He probably just needed a bigger shoe size was all. He walks on. 

The stairway leads straight down, and as Rick follows the glowing path of luminescent blobs, he finds that along with size, they also change in color. They turn from that strange, comforting crystalline-blue to a violet, deep purple to magenta, and then a bright pink. It was as if a whole rainbow of soft colours coated and stained what was now Syd’s stairs. Rick makes sure to steady himself, his hand gripping the railing on the wall. If he didn’t kill himself should he fall, he doesn’t want whatever might be in this house to slaughter him. The goop squishes as he steps, it feels almost soothing. It is warm and, unsurprisingly, sticks to his feet. It gets in-between each toe, and although it is almost relaxing, it scares Rick. How was he going to get this off?

Rick decides to think about cleaning himself off at a later time. He’ll worry about hygiene when the time comes. Instead, he focuses himself on continuing down the staircase, something he’s growing more and more wary about. As Rick clambers down each gushing step, he notices how the droplets of gloop seem to accumulate into larger globs, like humongous dew droplets that shine in the darkness. Something out of a tall tale that a mother would read at the witching hour for a restless child. Something never seen and never even imagined. A horrific thought occurs. What on earth could have made all this? Rick knows the answer, but he hated to admit it. He knows for a fact the only thing that could have done this was a cursed man. A monster. 

Syd. Oh, poor Syd. What on earth could he have been forced to become in order to do this? Rick has to let his mind wonder. His fingers and knees shake with the possibilities. What demon? What beast? Rick thinks maybe, like the others were gabbing about, that perhaps Syd could be a unicorn. The mythical, white horned horse seemed to go well with the rainbow-liked globs. But it did not explain the goo that Rick must trudge through, now up to his ankles. A dragon? That thought simply chills Rick to the bone. A large red-scaled fiery lizard, with a wingspan as large as a stadium, blowing smoke rings from it's nose while an inferno hotter than the sun comes out a throat that used to sing so beautifully. Devilish horns and nasty claws, the slashing and tearing and the blood - Rick has to stop himself. Then again, a dragon seems too far-fetched. If Syd had been such a mythical beast, he surely would have mutilated his own home to charcoal by now. Or, what if Syd was the same monster as one of them already? Barrett could be a tall, lanky centaur, a slimy little snake, a sharp, pudgy merman. Or a huge, burly, yellow-eyed werewolf.

_Not another, oh God, not another._

Rick stops himself in his tracks at that thought. Another? What was he thinking? He was no werewolf. He was normal. All this, all he was and all his friends were and all this nasty, glowing goop was nothing but a dream. A nightmare brought on by the holidays. A ridiculous fantasy his mind plays. He was certainly not going to let this stupid daydream take him by storm. No, he knows better. He is Richard Wright. Pianist and keyboardist for the normal, human band called Pink Floyd. He had blue eyes. And he was skinny. And he had no muscle. He didn’t trot on all fours like a lost, beaten dog. He didn’t have claws or ragged teeth or pointed ears or supernatural sight or hearing. He was a human. A man. A person. And this was his dream. That was all this was. It was best to just stay in this dream. To let it play out, so when he would wake up all safe and snuggled in his bed he would peek open his sea blue eyes and laugh, and perhaps tell David about it.

His ears perk. The buzzing has gotten ever so loud. He has to wonder what on earth that was. He goes down a few more steps, and his position allows him to slump, and peek into the foyer and living room. Slowly, Rick bends down to a crouch, a position that comforts him and assures that he is safe, oddly enough. But Rick’s eyes focus onto the next room. He has to bite his finger to keep from shouting at the very sight. That very same luminescent goop is ubiquitous, it covers every region of the downstairs world. Not a crack or crevice of the house goes uncoated by thick colourful mess. Not only the slime, but also plants, gigantic in height, dot and cover the room like ants on a crumb of food at a picnic. Cupped leaves as big as playground slides rise up from broken floorboards, vines cover the ceiling and walls. Mushrooms sprout from everything, the walls, the furniture, the floor. Even bushes grow to extraordinary heights, like huge plump trees that’s branches spring heavily and sporadically. Everything seems to pulse with an energy, a glow. Everything just seems so alive. Even the ivy vine covers the light fixtures, winds around the legs of tables.

But among all the flora, of course, is fauna. A multitude of animals and insects roam freely and unfrightened, as if this place is now their new forest dwelling. Birds of all colours perch on the bushes, cuddling up next to one another, swooping from vines and playing in the slime. Rabbits, too, hop from mushroom to mushroom, curiously dipping rounded noses and furry toes into pink sludge, only to recoil and quietly chatter to one another. Rick swore to himself he had just seen a deer hide behind a waterfall of vines. Pollinating the plants is a menagerie of butterflies and bees, dragonflies and ladybugs. Rick realizes that the swarm must have been making all that annoying buzzing sounds. It is so surreal, Syd’s home. It was as if Rick had just gone through a portal, and waltzed into a jungle ecosystem. 

Rick notices a huge red and white speckled mushroom, the largest one he had ever seen, smack dab in the middle of the living room. There is something else, too, something lounging on top of it. Rick is vaguely reminded of Alice In Wonderland, when he realises. Amongst the peaceful chaos of the ingrown forest, there is his friend. That figure, pale and skimpy, with a messy mop of black obsidian curls. Syd Barrett.

“Why, hello there, Wright!” The soft, happy words of Syd came out so suddenly, it made Rick uneasy. The guitarist hadn’t even opened his eyes, hadn't moved a muscle, and still somehow the curly mess of hair had known about the keyboardist’s solemn presence. Rick was so startled by this feat that he had slipped on the slime, and he almost tumbled down the stairs. But his instincts had gotten the better of him, his hand flew out to the wooden railing just in time to catch himself. The static movement caused a small panic amongst the animals, as they all flew and hopped to the opposite end of the room in a flush. Rick grasps at his chest, clutching the middle of his shirt. His heart feels like the drum beat to Interstellar Overdrive. He wants to run, too, on how he wanted to run from all of this. But you simply can’t run from a dream. Besides, Syd looked absolutely normal. Perhaps he wasn’t cursed, just his home, Rick thinks. But the shy piano player still says nothing Instead, he waits for the next move from his bandmate. 

Syd sat up on his crimson-speckled throne, kicking his feet side-by-side over the side like a small child. He seemed amused, and he tips his head back, enough so that the long black bangs in his eyes were to show the piper Rick’s form. Syd looks his friend over, a goofy smile all over his face. “Not gonna come say hello?” He teases, cocking his head to the side playfully. Rick, before speaking, looks Syd over again. He couldn’t see anything wrong or abnormal with Syd whatsoever, no teeth or claws or tails or horns. It was just Syd, laying on a mushroom and being his usual self. 

“If I may, what are you?” Rick asks in a mumble, trying to be polite. He still can’t mask the uneasy caution in his voice. He doesn’t know if Syd would suddenly jump off of his high perch, lunching at him with black talons only to rip his throat. He can’t stop thinking about the absolute worst possibilities. Rick finds he is driving himself over the edge. Unfortunately, this is not anything new to him. 

Syd laughs, throwing his head back and hugging his slim sides. “Don’t you know? I’m a Syd!” He giggles, bright and happy. As always. “Silly thing.” He coos, glancing back down at Rick on the stairwell. 

“No, I mean-” Rick was about to say more, but Syd was already talking over him. 

“I know what you mean, mate.” Syd’s voice had somehow changed. It was still upbeat and happy, but all the same, it was now serious. “Is this not what you expected to see?” He rolls over on his stomach, revealing his back. Rick doesn’t know how to react when he sees two folded pairs of wings that seem to have been glued to his guitarist. On closer inspection, Rick notices that each delicate, shimmering wing is protected by thick black exoskeleton, it glows dark blue. Rick steps closer and closer to the guitarist, who now sports a cheshire cat-like grin. As he grows near, he noticed that Syd’s body, too, is glowing. Tiny beads of pink, purple and blue glowing dots cover Syd’s entire form in patterns. Lines, swirls, lines and shapes, like some alienated henna. Syd’s ears poke out from his hair, long and pointed. The piper rests his head in both his hands, relishing in the attention. “Now, I want to see yours!” He playfully demands, one hand pointed out while his index finger points to the ground and makes a twirling movement, showing Rick to turn around. 

Rick stares at Syd a moment, his mind completely blank. “M-my what?” He trails, eyes narrowing in utmost confusion. There was suddenly panic in him. Had he somehow mutated due to all of this sludge? Frantically, Rick looked behind his back to see if something had grown, but yet there was nothing. Rick was still a human. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. He was perfectly fine. 

Syd’s face drops slightly. “Don’t you have them too?” Rick can see Syd’s eyes that so deviously hide behind his more than messy hair scanning him, he can feel it, too, eerily enough. Syd suddenly has a look of concern on his face, his hands fall down to his mushroom bed and cling to the sides. “Wait, you’re not like me.” He states simply. “You feel different.”

Rick finds his mind grow completely white more and more now. It is something he is, unfortunately, getting used to. “What do you mean by that? I feel different?” He asks, and he cannot hide the uneasiness that coats his every word. He tries to look Syd over as the man before him did to Rick, but he finds no clue to help him infer one blasted thing. 

Syd lazes himself across his mushroom, his chin resting on his arms like a pillow. He tilts his head back and forths, humming to himself with a dazed smile He allows one arm to fall off of his seat, and point to Rick. Once again, his index finger moves, this time, in a beckoning cax.

“Come here.” Syd commands smoothly, his eyes closed softly. 

Rick does not listen. “Hold on a minute!” He demands, face growing hot. “You haven’t answered me one thing!” His cheeks red and his voice raised, Rick feels helpless. No matter what he does, it is as if no one will listen. He is but a player’s piece in a great board game. He can only do what the rules tell him he must do. The thing was, Rick had no idea what those rules were. 

“Stay on the staircase if you wish,” The piper says, taking his arm back and laying his head down. “But I can’t answer your questions from so far away…” He mumbles, rolling to rest on his back. His hands play with his hair, and he giggles at the ceiling. It was obvious Syd was now playing games with his keyboardist. His playing piece. 

Suddenly a voice is in Rick’s head. _This is a dream…_ He tells himself. _Even if something bad were to happen, I’ll just wake up._ He’ll simply open his eyes, and what would he awake to? Another grueling day of being yelled at by Roger or a roadie or their manager. Rick decides to dream a little while longer. And So Rick grips the railing with an iron hold, quickly but carefully making his way to the bottom. Finally reaching the last step, Rick finds that one of his feet is stuck in a massive pile of warm goo. A noise of repulsion escapes Rick’s lips as he tries successfully to free himself, shaking his appendage clean.

“What is this shit?” He growls. He surprises himself. He sounded just like the bassist. 

Syd can be heard giggling on his high shroom. “That’s not a good question.” Was his simple, yet mysterious answer. 

Already Rick was annoyed by this. “You said you would answer my questions!” He states, looking up to the now winged piper. 

“Well... “ Syd trailed, glancing down to see Rick’s form struggling in a red-faced huff on the floor. Syd’s own cheeks are now tained pink. “...Anything but that question.” He specifies, going back to trace the ceiling with his eyes. 

Rick tightens his fists and clenches his teeth, making him taste a sickeningly sweet metallic liquid on his tongue. He finds himself growing rapidly agitated. Syd isn’t cooperating. This dream is making no sense. He feels like he is spiraling. He needs to get a hold of something, anything. Even if this wasn’t real at all. 

“This is ridiculous, I want to know-” Rick started, but suddenly shrieked, covering his eyes as he saw Syd rise to his bare feet. That led to bare legs. And a bare torso. “Oh, fuck! Christ! Syd, you’re stark!” He turned away abruptly. 

Syd, however, was not at all taken aback. Instead he looked down to himself, as if it were normal. “I am.” He said in a matter-of-fact way. He obviously was not phased by his appearance.

“But why is it _purple?!”_ Rick screeched through his hands, he feels very out of place here. 

Syd still speaks as if everything is rather normal. “I guess it changed with the curse, too.”

There was that word again. Five letters that made his stomach churn. It always seemed to hit him hard in the gut. “Curse?” He says, quieter, softer, a whimper. He turns around slowly, only looking at Syd’s face through the cracks in his fingers. “Oh, that bloody curse again.” Rick begins to start loathing the word. It makes him bitter. “Well, I’m ever so remorseful to break the news to you, but this is all simply a silly dream.” He tells the guitarist. 

“A dream?” Syd had to pause for a moment. Rick watches how Syd’s colourfully speckled face blanks, but then smiles. Laughter booms around the whole house as Syd falls back on top his mushroom in happy convulsions. “Well, if this is your dream, then it must be my dream, too!” Something about this concept was hilarious to Barrett. 

Rick didn’t want to know what it was. In fact, he wants nothing. He doesn’t like this anger he bottles up. He doesn’t like this newfound aggression. He doesn’t like this dream. He doesn’t like anything. Perhaps that was what made him pop then. “No, you’re not real!” He roars at Syd. There was no more laughter. “The real Syd Barrett doesn’t have bizarre bug wings, the real David Gilmour isn’t half of a flopping fish, and I’m not a fucking _werewolf!”_

His voice rises with every word. He is scaring himself.

Silence settles heavily throughout the entire house. The animals have stopped moving, they cower underneath the furniture. Even the insects have ceased to buzz. It was as if the room’s vibrant glow had dulled as well. The great energy once bestowed on everything the room entailed had stopped. Rick takes this time, this stop in the earth to breathe. Air flowing cooly out his nose, his fists unclench. He looks up solemnly at Syd, who had recoiled backwards to sitting on his mushroom. The faerie’s eyes are wide, staring at the keyboardist in a certain way that Rick had never before witnessed. That strange, uneasy scent fills Rick’s nostrils again for the second time today. Fear.

Rick realizes that Syd is staring at him in the way that looks as if he wants to speak. But like the animals, they are afraid to even make movement, unless Rick snatch them up and eat them. That very same look. Rick feels ashamed. Nervously, he looks away, running his tongue over his pulsing and crowded gums. In the process, he had slashed a clean, fine arch across his tongue. His teeth had done that. They felt so sharp, even more than usual. This time, Rick has no excuse. His mind is numb, blank. He swallows a mixture thick with his saliva and his blood hard. 

He still stares at the floor as he speaks. “I…” He begins, breath shallow and words few and lost. He tries his best to manage. “I came to bring you back to the others.” His flickering blue eyes glance up at Syd, who still stares with a timid feness. “The rest of the band, I mean. Nick and I came to see…” Words fail him. He felt as if he were speaking in a different language. That, coupled with the pit in his chest, made his eyes burn and his speech to become wet. “...if you were alright.”

Not once had Syd taken his wild, staring eyes off of Rick. Syd seems overly tense, ready to bolt, to run away. Syd’s words come out rigid and rocky. “You want me to leave my flat?” He asks. Rick can feel those words like a threat. “With you?”

That hurt. More than intended, but all the same, it still hurt. “And Nick.” He adds timidly. 

Syd pulls his legs to press against his ribbed chest, hugging himself. He looks so small like that. So fragile. So easily broken. “I don’t think I want to do that.”

“What? But you have to!” Rick tries so hard to lower his voice. He can’t stop himself from plunging deeper and deeper into anger. It only makes Syd curl up tighter. But Rick forces himself to calm before he continues. He feels as if his words are just as sharp on Syd’s skin than Syd’s words are on his own. “I’m sorry, I… everyone really wants you back. We all need some place safe together.” He wants to beg, even. For forgiveness and for closure and for closeness. Because even though he may look like a human, it does nothing to mask what has transformed on the inside. A monster. 

Syd isn’t helping. “Oh, of course.” Rick hears that faint trace of sarcasm loud and clear. But he does not acknowledge it. He doesn’t want to provoke anything. “You know, even if I wanted to, I can’t leave.” He states simply. 

Curiosity takes hold of Rick. He steps closer. “What do you mean?”

“There’s an iron fence surrounding my property.” Was the only answer. It only left more questions. Rick stares back at Syd blankly. Having no idea what on earth Syd is blabbering about with a fence, he keeps quiet, and waits patiently for some kind of clue. Syd sighs, exasperated. “Come on, do you even read the books I give to you for Christmas?” Syd rolls his eyes, staring deadpan at the piano player. “I’m a faerie! Iron burns fae!” 

Rick now has accumulated a library full of mythical legends and fairy-tales. He kept each and every one, out of respect of course. But he never did open a single book, no matter how small it was. Rick was oblivious to the world of myth. He thinks he would rather keep it that way. 

“Can’t you simply walk past the fence without brushing your skin on it?” He asks, in a more courteous and diligent way. He wants to regain as much of his composure as he can. It wasn’t good to be so irritable and unsensible. He wouldn’t allow to let himself sink as low as Waters. 

Syd looks tiredly and melancholy at Rick. “I tried.” He speaks in a saddened way, eyes raised to the ceiling as if he were watching a memory. “But before I got to the street, I fell over and threw up. Simply felt too sick to keep going.” 

Rick muses over this, pondering the statement. Of course there were other ways to get past the iron gates, there just had to be. If you can’t walk past, and you can’t go under, then the only other way was…

“What about the wooden fence?” He asks, remembering his feat of sailing over the obstacle rather well if he might say. 

Syd doesn’t perk. “What about it? It's as tall as a giraffe!” It seemed now as if Syd were the irritable one in the room. Rick takes this lightheartedly. 

But then again, things don’t add up well. Rick stares at Barrett for a moment, puzzled. “You have wings.” He replies in a sassy manner to combat Syd’s annoyed tone. But Rick wants to take it back as soon as he sees Syd’s reaction: Avoiding Rick’s gaze and lying flat on the mushroom, hiding himself.

“Well, you see…” Syd pulls and picks at his fingers, as if all his attention is on his appendages. It takes a moment for him to speak. Hs words are drawn-out and reluctant. “I can’t, I don’t know how to work my wings yet. The fence is too high.”

It was rather unlike Syd to only say things in a factual way. Rick doesn’t like it. 

“Not for me.” Rick has to chuckle in this way. He feels superior to Syd. He might as well gloat on his achievement. Syd looks up to Rick, confused and awed. The pianist finds that he enjoys this sense of god-likeness that has come with this “curse”, or rather, this dream. 

Rick allows himself to humble, though. He steps forward, very close to Syd, and holds out his hand. He waits patiently, until Syd finds the courage to come back down. Syd crawls to the edge shakily, looking to his friend with wary and frightened eyes. He is extremely uneasy, and his own hand shakes as he tries to put trust in Rick. One of his fingers brushes against Rick’s palm, and once both come in contact with each other, Syd quickly jumps back. It was as if Rick had sent electric currents up and all through Syd’s being. However, Rick stands unmoving, a sturdy stone statue. Calmly, he watches as Syd, like a scared but attention-hungry puppy, crawls back, staring at Rick. He blinks once, then slowly moves forward, and takes Rick’s hand tightly. Rick notes the size difference between him and the guitarist. Rick’s hand was so large, yet so gentle. Syd’s hand produced long, spindly, shaking and sporadic fingers. Rick looks away as Syd clambers off of the mushroom and onto the floor. 

Rick only looks at Syds face, smiling politely. “Come with me.” He says, his voice light. And for some reason or another, Syd giggles girlishly at that comment. Ignoring this, Rick pulls Syd up the stairs. He has now had it with the goop, and because of this, Rick finds it much faster to make it up the stairway. There was however, one thing that made him slow down. Each time Syd stepped into the muck, he would let out an amused chuckle, wriggling his toes. But all was well once the two reached the hallway. Thought it was dark, Rick found out that he had unknowingly brought a torch with him this time - Syd. Syd’s colourful tattoo-like bump-speckled body glowed as powerful as a candle, making it much easier for him to see. 

Curious and wanting at least one thing answered, Rick turns to Barrett as he walks. “What is all this glowing paste?” 

Once again, the mop-topped fae refuses to answer. Instead, giggles erupt from his mouth uncontrollably, and he covers his face with his thin fingers. Rick realizes it seems wise not to ask. Therefore, he decided to tuck that away for a different time. 

“Oh! Wait one second-” Rick suddenly froze, looking back to Syd and then slapping his hand over his eyes. He points down the stairwell. “Go put something on!” He scolds, Syd leaves the room a laughing mess, but comes back shortly in a very large sweatshirt with Snoopy the Dog printed over it, and for whatever reason, a pair of very baggy black shorts, showing off his speckled legs. Rick was going to suggest Syd to change his unruly attire, but Rick decides that they could play the glowing bumps off as simply Halloween paint. 

They two finally reach the attic. Rick allows himself to go out of the window first. He grips the vine between his fists, sliding down the grappling plant with ease. He steps back, and watches as Syd clumsily sticks a leg out of the sill, scrape against the brick, and finally find a hold on the vine. Then he lets his other leg down, and like a drunken chimp, clambers down at a slow, easygoing pace. Five feet from the ground, Syd jumps to the ground, landing unbalanced on his knees.

Rick is immediately by his side. “You alright?” He asks, a hand on Syd’s shoulder. The faerie gets up shakily, but nods his head all the same. “Good, now climb on my back.”

It was a strange request, certainly not one Syd was used to. “Excuse me?”

“Climb on my back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments, any type of feedback is always appreciated!


	8. Bloom

“I heard you the first time, but you must be truly mad if you think I’m going to do that!” Syd Barrett folds his arms over his chest, shaking his head as he stares warily at the pianist. Something about this wasn’t settling right with him. 

His friend sighs, embittered. “Please just do it. There’s simply no other way out of here.” Rick admitted. Syd watches as Wright kneels on the ground, waiting. Rick has been patient with him, Syd knows. And it was Rick after all, there shouldn’t be any danger in this. Syd still feels uncomfortable, about this, but he sighs in defeat and walks behind Rick, wrapping his arms around the keyboardist’s chest and burying his face in soft hair. 

Wright stands, his hands holding on top Syd’s legs. Barrett’s grip on Rick tightens, he nuzzles himself into the piano player’s warm neck. He can’t help his shakiness, Syd really didn’t take well to being outside. He didn’t want to be seen or heard. He didn’t like all the people outside, how loud it all was. All he wanted to do was go and be somewhere safe. 

But Syd’s nerves calm down when Rick chuckles, looking back to his frightened cargo. “You’re as light as a feather.” Rick hums, walking to the large wooden fence. 

Syd grunts timidly in response, but does not look up. He knows they must be in front of the fence now, Rick has stopped walking. “Okay, now what?” The faerie mumbles through Rick’s thick mane. 

He feels Rick take a few steps back, readjust Syd on his back, and brace himself. “Hold on!” Rick shouts.

Syd hasn’t even the time to respond, but he does have time to shriek in surprise, clinging tightly as Rick bolts forward, speeding right for the hard wall of wood. Rick charges the fence, and takes one large, powerful leap. In a springing bound, Rick sails high over the fence. Syd nearly falls off as Rick lands heavily on his feet. He dangles limply on Rick’s back, fingers digging into the keyboardist’s torso. Syd perks his head up, and a huge exhale flies out his mouth. But that turns into an amused snort, and then hyped laughter. 

“Can we do that again?” Syd cackles, refusing to let off Rick. However, the joviality ceases as two short but loud beeps come from the van. 

Syd turns his head to see Nick sticking his head from out the window. “Hurry it up, please! You were in there for nearly half an hour and my tail’s all but frozen off!”

Barrett huffs, slumping off Rick. But Syd doesn’t want to move. He is outside, in the open, and the city surrounds him. He moves slowly to the van, after Rick’s lead, playing with his fingers. Syd hesitates when his hand grasps the back door, but he jumps in quickly, lying low in his seat. He hears Rick muttering apologies as he gets into the passenger side door. 

The strange thing was, Syd wasn’t phased as he saw a long, emerald green tail slink over on top Rick’s lap and down to the driver’s side. Syd, instead, finds himself sporting a knowing smile. He watches in a tentative manner as Rick absent-mindedly pulls Nick’s long appendage over him like a blanket. It was like Rick had gotten used to this, as if he had been living like this all his life. It was strange, how easily the strange came to him then. Almost like he accepted it. Nick gives out a relaxed sound to this movement, he doesn’t move away-but into Rick. The pianist, though, must have thought this was rude action he had committed. Red-faced and awkwardly silent, he swiftly lifts his hands and shifts away. Nick, however, looks sheepish. 

“Could you, uhm, could you keep doing that? You’re very warm.” He says shyly. Rick, taken aback, and even possibly more flustered, obliges. He places his palm on Nick’s tail, draping as much as he could over his lap.

Syd stares blankly out the window, he hadn’t even bothered with his seatbelt. His eyes mirror the now growing foliage outside the glass window. Bushes turn to trees and small, cut green blades turns to long, wispy grass. Leaves had already started to change color, and some fall from their lofty branches on top the road. The black pavement is tunneled by the trees, making Syd think of all the tall tales he had read to himself. He also thinks he should be calm, but the fear of leaving the only safe place he had woken up to this strange morning, his own home, was gone. He felt like this floral path only led to a dragon’s den. He had nothing to slay the fiery beast with. 

The one thing that drew his attention away from the trees was the prickly sensation on his skin that told him that someone was staring. Out of the corner of Syd’s eyes, he spies Nick flashing him quick glances in the rearview mirror. Nick was inspecting him. Trying to piece together what Syd had transformed into. But the crafty guitarist, with his mop of hair masking pointed ears and an overly large sweatshirt hiding his wings, it was impossible. The only indication of anything out of the ordinary was Syd’s face and legs, with those strange glowing dots patterned delicately to his flesh. 

“If you must know, Nick, I’m a faerie.” Syd does not move his head when he speaks, nor does he take his eyes from the window. His tone is dry, and maybe he does get a thrill from watching Nick look at him in surprise. Syd continues. “A naga is quite fitting, I must say. And wolf-boy over there…” Rick visibly flinches at the cruel-worded nickname, but he doesn’t say a word against it. Syd acknowledges this as a notification to stop speaking of Richard’s condition. He knows Rick has been in denial as soon as he figured out the curse was real. But he also figures Rick will learn soon enough. Leaning back into the seat, Syd continues. “The others are alright, I presume?” 

“Yeah, fine. They’re fine.” Nick answeres too quickly for Syd’s better judgement. It sets him off unsteadily. 

This horrible creeping feeling crawls around Syd’s body. He feels as if something amiss had happened while he wasn’t with his band. Then again, it felt like nowadays, nothing good ever happened in the music industry. Especially the one Syd had formed. It was always fighting. Over the lyrics, the tunes, the effects. One thing that Syd wanted most in this world was to have peace among the members. Among his friends. He wanted peace more than anything. The only bit of it he had recently been given was the time in his home. He craves it now, solitude and silence, his only company forest life.

Syd was brought out of his thoughts by Rick’s voice. “How do you think we can get your wings working, Syd?” He pipes up unexpectedly from the front. 

“My wings?” Repeats the guitarist. He had almost forgotten his new, currently useless, appendages. He thinks for a moment before replying. Unsurely, he speaks. “Uh, I’m not sure. They were open when I...transformed. But after I relaxed, they folded up.” Wording sounded so uncomfortable in their ears. But there was simply no other way to state the truth. 

“Strange.” Nick mumbles. His fingers tap erratic beats on the steering wheel in thought. “We could try and help you out with… _that,_ if you’d like.”

Syd finally looks up to the front of the vehicle, tilting his head to the side. One of his ears pokes out comically from his hair. “What, getting my wings open?” 

Nick’s happy eyes looks back in the mirror to meet Syd’s gaze, the drummer hums in agreement. “Not a very good faerie if you can’t fly, now, don’t you think?” He chuckles to himself, and it does actually make Syd smile. 

All of a sudden the car changes direction, and Syd is surprised to see a clearing with Rick’s house in it. He hadn’t been aware that they were so close to the pianist’s abode. Syd honestly hadn't even been paying attention since he was invited into the jovial chat. The van stops, and the two in front clamber out. Syd follows in the respect, but he realizes he hadn’t worn anything on his feet when they hit black pavement. Glancing over at Rick’s feet, he notices that they, too, are exposed. Syd smiles, and taps Rick’s bare foot with his own, getting the pianist’s attention. 

“Where did these go, then?” Syd asks amusedly. Rick looks at him, puzzled, then looks down to his feet to see what Syd was getting at. When he realizes he has a pair of missing footwear, he lets out an annoyed sigh, and trudges up the driveway to the house. 

“It appears I’ve left them at your flat.” Rick grumbled, just loud enough for Syd to hear. 

Syd suddenly feels guilty. He looks back to the van, pointing at the vehicle with his thumb. “Shall we go…?”

Rick, frustration rising, snaps back quickly. “No, no, it’s not worth anything to travel back to the city just for a pair of silly shoes.” He glances at Syd, and taking a deep breath, he calms himself. He turns to face Syd entirely, his expression softens. “I don't mind this.” His voice is so soft and assuring. 

Syd pauses, his toes buried in the grass while Rick continues up to the door. From his own inspection, it had seemed like Rick’s irritable behaviour was growing more frequent, it was getting worse. Syd worried for his friend. He knew there was a power inside the keyboardist that simply couldn’t be tamed. He just hoped his wolf counterpart wasn’t getting the better of him. 

The heavy feeling of something on his shoulder made the guitarist tense up. On realizing it was just Nick's hand, Syd relaxes. The drummer leans in close to Syd's ear to whisper as quietly as possible. 

"He's been like this all day." Concern was prominent in his voice. "What are the odds he might, you know, go feral?" Out of the corner of his eyes, Syd saw the object of discussion. His hand on his doorknob, with a tight grip of murderous proportion, Rick bares his sharp teeth. He had definitely heard Nick. 

Rick throws open the door, and disappears inside in a stormy whirl. Nick, his head down, solemnly crawled in warily after. But Syd stayed right outside, his attention solely focused on the door knob. The grip was crushed like an empty soda can, indented perfectly to the shape of Rick’s fingers. This was only a glimpse of what the keyboardist was capable of, Syd knows. This was just his human form. And yet Rick could still break bones if he so chose. But what about his wolf form? The thought scared Syd. He stares at the crumpled knob, different bloody scenarios racking his mind. His fingers mindlessly run over the dents. 

“Syd what’s taking so long?” It was a familiar voice that grabbed Syd’s attention. That voice sounded like someone he knew. And that someone he knew sounded like Roger.

Syd’s head perked up, but when he looked up, he was met with a blanket of furry midnight black. He didn’t see Roger at all, but a large, negro horse torso inside of a slightly outwards-dented door frame. He didn’t remember Rick allowing any form of farm life into his home. In fact, Rick was against any animals, save for some dogs or maybe cats. But a horse? Rick wouldn’t allow that at all. 

The sound of a throat-clearing cough made Syd look up. Syd gasped gleefully at the sight of Roger’s normal body connected to the horse. 

“You’re a centaur!” Syd covers his mouth in awe as his eyes fly to every inch that was now Roger. He couldn’t seem to stand still, either. 

Roger raised a brow. “Excuse me?” The bassist mused, crossing himself. However, Syd didn’t seem intimidated. Instead, the faerie dared to lean forward, hand outstretched, and felt Roger’s muscled horse chest. Once that happened, Syd’s fingers started to massage the skin, as Roger’s high cheekbones turned bright pink. “What the fuck do you surmise you’re doing?!”

Syd paid no attention to Rogers words. The guitarist had a propensity for exploring new things that fascinated him. “Do you have two lungs in this chest, here?” He asked, his hands petting down the wiry obsidian fur. “It’s so _big…”_ He chimed, and Syd’s words make Roger grow increasingly more and more flustered. His cheeks, nose and ears were all a hot red now. Syd wouldn’t stop chattering, though. Instead, he laid his head down on Roger’s second chest, his pointed ear right on the skin, his hands steady Roger. He smiles largely when he hears big, powerful breaths of air entering and exiting from the half-horse.

The faerie continued to move down Roger’s animal body, his fingers trace over the taught skin. “There’s so much muscle, and I’m sure you have another stomach and liver and…” Syd continues to rattle off numerous organs and vital intestines ar he moves, his hands clutching and petting at the black fur. He stopped when he reached Roger’s rear, thought. “Well, well, Georgie!” Syd happily chides, giving Roger’s back leg a good scratch. The centaur lifts his hoof unsurely in embarrassment. Suddenly, a devious grin is upon Syd’s lips. His hand winds back and he gives the rear a good _smack. _Roger yipes, whipping Syd’s face with his tail.__

__“I beg your pardon!” Roger shouts at the top of his lungs, doing the best he can to spin around without running into or backing over anything. “But we did not send for you so that you could play around, as if this is some sort of personal petting zoo!” Roger fumes. However, Syd had already lost interest, and spotted David. Syd dashed over to the poor fish, whose fins instinctively raise up._ _

__“I must say!” Syd begins, circling and inspecting Gilmor with a saccharine smile. “...I didn’t expect her to be so thorough and thoughtful with these forms!” He exclaims. With long, thin fingers, Syd traces the counterpart guitarist’s jawline, tipping his chin up to take in all his features. It looked just like David, no deformities, except for the fact that it looked like David was now a red-striped zebra. The crimson pattern is drawn everywhere on his skin, and Syd thinks it combines with his features quite handsomely. “What sort of mer-creature are you? There’s so much more here than just gills and a tail.”_ _

__Syd bends down onto his knees, tracing down David’s neck and torso to scaly hips and spines. David stays quiet, and he doesn’t squirm either. He didn’t mind the touches, of all things that had happened to him. David takes it rather well, relaxing some as Syd traces scales and stripes. But David draws tense and rigid as Syd’s finger trails up to David’s large, sharp spines._ _

__David began to protest, “Wait, don’t touch - !” But it was already too late. His warning wasn’t heard in time._ _

__Syd had stuck his finger on the tip of David’s spine, he reacts by quickly flying backwards as he squeaked. David notes a clears stream of poison go down the spike. “I’m venomous…” David says sadly. He misses touching things, feeling things on his skin, out of all the things he had lost._ _

__Of course, Syd’s quickly swelling finger didn’t bother the frizzy-haired guitarist whatsoever. He ignores his hand, and grins in excitement. “A defense mechanism!” He laughs. “Have you touched it? Does it hurt when you touch it too? Tell me everything!” He blabs, his eyes bright and gleeful._ _

__David stays calm, shrugging. The faerie's bouncy behavior doesn’t deter him or annoy him. “There’s not much more to me.” He simply says. David didn’t get along well with his new body, he certainly wasn’t delighted over his changes and new inability to touch or be touched._ _

__Syd’s erratic eyes finally fall upon David’s distended tum. Amused by the strange sight, he points at David’s middle. “What about this?” His voice is soft, curious._ _

__The merman sighs, his eyes moving away. “I retain water.” His tone told Syd he was disgusted with himself, repulsed at the idea of looking like an overstuffed turkey on Christmas day. “Drinking is the only way I am able to remain on land, I suppose.” Thought David may be unwilling of this, he would rather be breathing than suffocating. And it seemed like Syd read his very thoughts when the next question spilled from the piper’s maw._ _

__“What happens when you don’t drink?” Syd wants to take what he had said back once Gilmour’s expression changed, how uncomfortable he now appeared. Shoulders sagging while fingers frittered away with one another. His tail twitched and his spines lowered. In sea blue eyes, Syd sees negative thoughts and weighty emotions that stir and fester. He quickly brings up something else. “What does it feel like in there? Is it cold? Oh, can I touch it?” His words spill out suddenly._ _

__David chuckles as he speaks, looking down at himself numbly. “If feels good, I should say. And yes, you can touch it, if you’d like.” Syd leans forward almost immediately, lettings his hands rub along the underside of David’s belly. “The water becomes warm after it’s been in there a while.” David explains as Syd explores._ _

__Setting his hands down to the floor as he crosses his legs over one another to sit down, Syd looks up to meet David’s eyes again. “And what if I were to stick a garden hose in your mouth? Would it be like a water balloon?” Syd inquires, smiling mischievously as David grows red with embarrassment. “I want to try an experiment, if I may.”_ _

__“Not in a million years!” David hisses, thought there is playful banter in his words. He crosses his arms low over his chest, covering himself slightly “And quite personally, I don’t want to know, either.”_ _

__“Oh, please, Dave? It’ll just be a little experiment!” Syd stood up suddenly, his curly hair bouncing on his shoulders. He suddenly hears laughter behind him, Roger’s laughter._ _

__“Hey, c’mon Dave, let’s try it out!” Roger trots over to stand beside the faerie, a huge grin on his face that gave off an unsettling aura. “What, is the New Boy scared?”_ _

__David grits his teeth at the old nickname. Ever since he had joined this band, he had been dubbed the "New Kid" or “New Boy". It had unfortunately stuck with him through the months, and it was used with utmost teasery. David disliked it greatly. He keeps his composure now, the banter doesn’t make him falter. Instead, he is simply concerned about weather the older members of the band were actually going to go through with Syd’s "experiment" or not._ _

__“Why not Syd?” David proposes, addressing the room, and Roger especially. “We haven’t seen what he can do as of yet!” Then he suddenly realizes something. He had no idea what Syd even was. Of course he had taken note of Syd’s new, alienated appearance, but it gave no indication to what he was whatsoever. “Wait, what even are you?” David asks._ _

__Syd suddenly becomes very perky. “Oh! I guess I never revealed myself, hm?” Syd hums happily, and steps back to take off his red sweatshirt. It comes off over his head and is thrown mindlessly to the corner, only to reveal the rest of the front of his body is patterned in purple and pink dots. “Behold!” He says triumphantly, spreading his arms wide. It was strange, how he looked. Where the center of Syd’s bony chest was, where his heart should be, bright pink shone through the dots. As it moved away from Syd’s heart, bright pink merged from a magenta to purple. It was a deep violet to blue at his fingertips, wrists, ankles and toes. It reminded David of perhaps how a light worked. Brightest in the center, and dimmer as the light went on._ _

__Both Roger and David stare at him blankly. Roger takes a hold of Syd’s shoulders, and forces him to turn around, it shows an oval-like black dome covering Syd’s back, from shoulder blades to the end of his torso. Other than that, more of the glowing nodes are seen, trailing down Syd’s spine and swirling over his shoulders. Roger lets his fingers fly over the strange, shiny black surface. It is hard and smooth, but it still renders his mind blank. He steps back._ _

__“...I give up.” The bassist says in defeat. His hands hold on top his arm as his tail swishes behind him. “No clue what _you_ are.” Roger always had an uncanny way of making even the smallest sentence have spikes. He used the ability especially in the studio, but it wasn’t often seen outside of recording. Syd can’t blame Roger for feeling so on edge, though. Syd knows Roger didn’t like any of this, and it only made it worse that Roger, unlike Rick, knew this was total reality. _ _

__“Same here.” David chimed in. The merman looked over to the couch for help in guessing, where Rick sat facing away, out the window, and Nick lay completely sprawled over the mutilated furniture and the pianist. The two both remain silent, with knowing smiles, and David is left to ponder._ _

__Syd grumbles. “I guess none of you actually read the books I give you on holidays.” It doesn’t render out his happy energy, though, if anything, it boosts his behaviour. In a dramatic twirl, he holds his arms out wide once again, a childish smile plastered on his face. “I’m a faerie!”_ _

__David doesn’t seem convinced. “Oh, right…” He remarks blandly. “Don’t faeries have wings, though?” He asks, cocking his head._ _

__“Fly for us.” Roger demands in a hard and short voice. Everyone stares down Syd._ _

__Syd lowers his arms, suddenly closing himself up. He looks flustered, motioning to the black shell.”Those are my wings. They’re just folded up.” He reaches around, feeling the smooth, thick exoskeleton. It calms him. “I can’t get them open.” He says quietly._ _

__“Have you tried to?” Roger grunts, clearly unamused._ _

__Syd huffs at the centaur and moves a step away. “Of course I’ve tried. I just don’t really know how yet.” He timidly says._ _

__“Hey, lads,” Nick calls over from the couch. His long tail is slung over Rick’s lap, winding over the back of the couch, and finally back around to the front. He had wrapped a blanket around as much of himself as he could cover. “Why don’t we try some "experiments" of our own outside? We could learn how to control ourselves better, you know!”_ _

__David doesn’t like the idea. A million scenes of someone coming up to them with a gun or a knife plays through his mind. “What if someone sees us?” He shakily asks._ _

__“Impossible,” Rick coolly responds. “I bought this place for the isolation. I barely even see any squirrels.”_ _

__Nick heaves himself to a stand, and starts out the back door. “Come on, then!” He cheers as he moves. “This is going to be exciting!”_ _


	9. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late post, this one was heavy on the detail.

“Is your hand going to be alright?” Asked the pianist, pointing to Syd’s swollen and reddened finger, face full of concern as he walks next to the piper. 

All five band members, now reunited, had escaped the currently cramped cottage that was Rick’s home. The Floyd exchanged it for the wide and open grassy backyard, so big that it looked more like a large field then a yard. It was a cool day, with a slight breeze accompanied by warm rays of sun that rose overhead. Roger had sprawled himself out on the grass, his long tail swinging and swatting at any pesky insects that attempted to land on him. Beside him was Nick, coiled and resting in a patch of warm sunlight. He used his tail to prop himself up, and spent this leisure time watching the skies that were, for once, not clouded. David, in his own certain kind of paranoia, feared he might stick someone with his spines. So, he had spotted a nearby puddle, and curled himself up as small as he could in it, away from everyone else. He felt better in the small patch of clean rainwater anyway, it was almost calming to the merman. 

Because of the lack of foreign body parts that could get in their way, Syd and Rick settled down together cross-legged in the grass. No one had spoken since settling into their places, and a serene scene came over Rick’s land. The Floyd enjoyed the nice day, the quiet isolation. That was, until, Rick had spoken up, addressing Syd’s injury. After that, the scene morphed horrendously. 

“Oh my, I had forgotten about this,” Syd laughs. He doesn’t mind it that his four bandmates stare at him in a disbelief for letting something so obviously painful slip his mind. “It was just a little prick! Oh, well, nothing I can’t fix.” Even though venom courses through his veins, Syd finds ways to remain an optimist. Perhaps it was this quality that made Syd immune to the heavy fear that came with the curse.

Roger opened his mouth to lash out with a witty retort, because no one could “forget” such a detriment. But he kept his mouth shut as they all watched in silence when Syd suddenly leaned forward and buried his injured hand in the rich, black earth. It wasn’t something you saw every day, that was for certain. It was almost as if the ground had gladly eaten Syd’s hand, like a Venus fly trap suddenly closing in on any unknowing insect. They all watched him warily, in a clouded confusion. Syd, however, stared at the ground, focusing himself on the spot of grass where his hand was buried under. It took a few seconds, but then something began to happen. Strange as was, it was as if a light from below started to dimly glow around the spot where Syd had placed his hand. That wasn’t all, as then the four unknowing band members saw that small somethings derived from the earth, burrowing upward like worms. To everyone’s surprise, it was actually thin, twisted roots that had begun to raise from the ground, and they wrapped themselves around Syd’s arm, and undoubtedly, his hidden hand. It completely mummified his wrist and lower arm, and Syd seemed utterly unfazed as the plants metaphorically consumed him.

David wasn’t settling right with such abnormal actions. The small, gnarled roots seemed mendacious in his eyes.

“What’s happening?” He shakes out, as if he feared the roots were to attack and eat them all. Even though he was a few feet away, he flashed out his fins menacingly. He wasn’t going to be strangled by plants. 

Syd hadn’t answered, nor blinked for that matter. His world was now his hand, the earth, and the roots. His eyes were now foggy and glazed, and even the veins in his arm bulged out slightly. The faerie looked as if he were straining himself, like a bodybuilder exerts himself to lifting weights. No doubt, there was an invisible power Syd was controlling, condensing and contorting for his own use. 

“Should we do something?” Nick asks, looking around as he expects an answer from any of the others. He appeared confused, even scared. The naga hadn’t any clue of what was going on, and he hadn’t much faith in Syd. What if something were to happen, and the guitarist come out of this with an amputated hand? He shudders to think about it, feeling like it would be his fault. 

“Let’s pull him out, then.” Declares Roger, who pushes himself up in a swift movement, with power and grace. The centaur didn’t trip or falter when he walked anymore. Instead, his hooves fell down with purpose and hard meaning, and he led himself with pride, much in contrast to the night prior. Nick, too, moves over to help, but is stopped by none other than the pianist. 

“Don’t touch him.” Rick says firmly, coldly, putting his body between Syd’s rooted, tree-like form and the two others that dare approach the concentrating fae. “He’s fine. Just let him finish, trust me.” The keyboardist seemed like a stone blockade then, in that moment. Unmovable and unbreakable. Nothing would get through him. Roger disliked it. 

“Do you know something that we don’t?” Waters asked, testing Rick’s power. Irritated that someone dared defy him, he challenges the smaller. “Syd could lose his arm if you’re wrong!”

Rick tries so hard not to crack, not to yell. He restrains his arms from thrashing out at Roger’s neck and his fists from coiling and aiming at the younger’s face. He tries so desperately to be his old, peaceful, timid self. He felt like he was losing himself when his anger rose.

“I can feel it. He’s probably just…” But he doesn’t get a chance to finish.

“Oh, so you have magical senses now?” Roger loomed and towered over Rick, his height giving him a dark aura. His eyes are shrouded by his bangs, his face is hard and unloving. The horse doesn’t even give Wright the ability to answer his question when he spits out another spray of sharp words. “Are these the same senses that made you try to kill us earlier?” 

For Rick, time suddenly paused, the world became dark. All that remained was himself, and the opposing bassist. He had broken. Roger had gone much too far with that last assault. And here was Richard, trying to take shelter for the millionth time. To try to remain stoic and silent, while all around him, his friends attack. It became harder and harder to control himself, and the pianist found that he could never catch a break anymore. Not with the whispers behind his back, the accusing stares, how they treat him like an outcast. Like the monster Rick was.

Nothing should have affected Richard like this. Normally, he would take note of these things, but brush it off, put on a fake smile, and play his piano like he was supposed to. But this was a dream. And even in dreams, it shouldn’t make him want to kill anyone. Everything here drew the piano player in and spat him out, making him pissed, violent even. 

Then, something came to Wright’s mind. Dreams had no consequences, did they?

He could do what he wanted with Roger right now, in this state. Anything he pleased. Rick could leap up with terrifying strength and speed, tear out the centaur’s throat with his own teeth. He could finally push out the voice of reason that always held him back. Always restrained him. And Richard would enjoy it, too. He’d take delight in this. 

The once timid and shy man felt one thing, and it was the sharpness in his mouth as blood pooled beneath his tongue as his teeth became knives. Saliva came in hefty amounts too, his mouth watered for bassist blood. And somewhere far away, he heard his name being called. That same stench he had been catching drifts of all day came into his nostrils again, that aroma that could only be described as “fear”. But none of that mattered anymore. Rick was finally going to take lead in this twisted game of chess. He was going to do it. 

“Good as new!” 

The voice that brought Wright out of all that darkness, that bloodlust, was Syd. The piper stood behind Rick, an arm-shaped tube of roots near his feet. The mound of curly hair flexed and played with his finger, a big grin prominent on his face. It quickly disappeared as the guitarist looks around at the faces of his friends. Syd notices how they all look at the keyboardist. And curious Syd, innocent faerie. He goes to face the keyboardist to see what was the matter.

They all stared at him. At Rick. Wide-eyed and perched to run like mice. The wolf’s prey. Even the man made of iron, Roger Waters. No, especially Roger Waters. 

Richard licks his lips nervously, his tongue smears blood on them as he tastes the sickening metallic flavour. Perhaps the worst part was he liked that taste. Rick’s mind was foggy over what had just happened, as he had blacked out slightly, but he knew what he had done. Richard had just made things very bad for himself. He grows woozy and begins to feel sick. 

Not a word was said for the longest time, even though Rick mentally begged for it. This nightmare was becoming too hard, too fast for him to handle. He couldn’t keep up with these mood swings. But most of all Rick didn’t want to look at anyone, or for anyone to look at him. He starts to shake uncontrollably, and his soft eyes become teary, Richard quickly wipes away the tears with the sleeve of his sweater. He’d have none of that now.

“Hey, Roger?” Bless his soul. Syd started to talk again. The bassist looks over to who addressed him, but makes sure to keep Rick in his peripheral vision. “I noticed your foot is bandaged, I could heal that, too.” He offers so sweetly, so kindly. 

“My…?” It was so strange to the bassist, to hear the word “foot”. It makes him look down quickly at himself, only to feel the small disatisfaction of still being connected to this horrible animal. But he also looks down to his still throbbing appendage, messily wrapped up in a now shredded, bloodied cloth. “Right, my leg.” Roger stops the verbal assaults after that. He realizes Syd is only trying to help him. There was no reason to act out. “It certainly would make moving a hell of a lot easier, if you did.” He says politely. Or, as politely as he could muster. 

The bassist walks to his bandmate, but still makes sure to stare down Rick as he passes. Richard still smells fear. Roger presents his leg to the guitarist. 

“Bury it a little.” Syd commands, patting the ground softly. “You need to touch the earth.” He instructs. 

Grumbling, Roger does as he is told. With his hoof, he digs a small hole, and nestles his leg into it, wincing in the slightest as open wound is fitted into dirt. The centaur looks at Syd unsteadily. “This isn’t going to hurt, is it?” He asks warily, his suspicion high. 

“Not at all, just don’t disturb me!” Syd replies happily. With that, the faerie once again presses his hands into the dirt. His eyes glaze over, making the soil glow a pale amber yellow. Roots snake up from the ground, rising up Roger’s leg, gluing him in place. The horse’s leg muscles shiver uncontrollably, his body was clearly not fond of the roots touching him and clamping him to the dirt. 

Nick inches closer to Roger, further from Rick. “What’s it like?” He pipes up, staring at he faerie’s work. 

“Like rubbing your foot against seaweed in the ocean, but on land.” The bass player grunts, impatiently crossing his arms. Why didn’t Syd just get on with it? 

Now, everyone knew not to touch Syd, and whilst the talkative fae was busying himself, the band was thrust once again into awkward silence. Rick could feel three sets of eyes upon him, then going away as he started to notice, looking in their own directions. This was the worst torture he had ever endured. He didn’t want to be shunned, to be kept at an arm’s length away. He just wanted to wake up.

Richard felt indebted to the faerie when he finally came out of his trance. Slowly, like waking up from a deep sleep, Syd lifts his hands, dirt speckling his fingers and palms. He touches and holds onto the nest of roots that surround Roger’s leg, but he does so ever so lightly, with small, dainty actions. As if the plants were each tiny fiber strands of the most fragile glass.

“You can pull your leg out now, Georgie,” Syd utters, his breath thin and airy. He looks up to meet the centaur’s bright green eyes, his eyelashes flutter lethargically. He sounded very sleepy. 

“Any longer and I would have passed on!” Roger remarks light-heartedly. It was surprising, though. The centaur seemed surprisingly irritable, for just having his hurt leg mended. With a huge heave, Roger pulls himself backwards, shattering the floral binder. His bandages had been ripped off, revealing a perfectly healthy and normal-looking midnight black forearm. The tall, black horse stumbles for balance on three legs, his previously injured appendage is kept off the ground and close to his large chest. 

This bothers Rick for many reasons. One, Roger had not thanked Syd whatsoever for healing him. And from the looks of it, The faerie was withered and worn from his exertions. The other reason, was that Roger didn’t trust Syd enough to believe that his leg was healed. Waters refuses to let that leg down, even thought it looked and worked perfectly fine. 

Before Rick could add onto his list, Roger slowly, warily, presses his last hoof to the ground, like the world below him was hot lava. Testing his weight, he rocks his body back and forth a bit. Then, the bassist scrapes his hoof into the dirt, digging up the earth, and proceeding to stomp as hard as he could in the spot with the same leg. Each movement seemed to produce great joy, happiness bubbling and welling inside the great horse. He suddenly charges for a few steps and jumps, kicking into the air. Syd smiles widely, Roger looks like a bronco at that American Texas Rodeo. Even Nick giggles as Roger then proceeds to trot daintily, a pampered show pony. 

“Would you look at that, lads!” Roger laughs as he breaks into a gallop. “Watch me!” With all the giddiness of a small child, the centaur charges around the entirety of the field with magnificent speed. Powerful strides and thunderous galloping, Roger’s muscles ripple with each fast-paced step. The band shouts, whoops, cheers and applauds as they watch their bassist. Even Richard feels happy, watching how much Roger actually was enjoying himself. In turn, Rick’s mood was lifted. He didn’t feel uncomfortable being around everyone anymore.

“That was amazing, Rog!” Nick pipes as the centaur returns to the circle of monsters from his frolic. David had even crawled closer to the half-horse as well. 

“If I still had my legs,” Adds the guitarist, “I wouldn’t mind riding you.” With that comment, Roger lets out a smile. It was a rare, warm smile, and a well needed one at that. 

“Glad you enjoyed my little show,” The bassist chuckles proudly. But instead of feeding his ego, he turns away from the three, and instead, tries to get the attention of the faerie who was lying on the ground. Barrett looked exceptionally exhausted. “Oh, um... Syd?” Roger calls, and it is strange and even wondrous how much the bassist’s voice had softened. 

Upon hearing his name being called, Syd leans up on his elbows to try to focus better. His eyes open into slits, he looks like he’s trying to fall asleep.

“How can I help you?” He answers groggily as he bobs his head, making his wild curls bounce on his shoulders. 

Roger sucked in a breath, and held it for a second. His ears and sharp cheekbones became flushed in the slightest.

“Thanks for… my leg.” Roger Waters was not known for his wordings of gratitude. But today, he sounded genuine in his thanks. 

“I thought you had forgotten to thank him for a moment.” Richard mumbled, just loud enough for Roger to hear. There was a certain grade of pettiness to Rick’s voice, he sounded like all at once he was going to be angry and irritated again.

“I give credit…” Roger turned, and Rick saw that the centaur’s face was pale, hard, and cold. “...where credit is due.” Waters straightens his back, and stands tall. But he does not move towards Wright. Instead, he stares right into the keyboardist’s soul coolly. 

“So why not thank him immediately?” The pianist pressures. He had never done that before; retorted with such swiftness. Rick felt empowered by this, and he continues. “You saw him heal his own hand with your two eyes!” He states, trying to knock Roger off his metaphorical seated throne. Waters didn’t need to be so egotistic, it was time someone stood up to him, other than David. Besides, the pianist needed something to put his anger out on. Who better than this ugly, narcissistic bass player?

“Please!” Roger scoffs, rolling his eyes. However, his expression changes to show he was deep in his thoughts. He chose his next words delicately. “Well, I…” It was the strangest thing. The lack of wit and retort. It was as if Waters had lost his signature touch. But suddenly, the centaur locks eyes with Rick, standing his ground as his left hoof raises, and plummets hard into the ground, rooting himself in the spot. “A finger is contrasted quite heavily to a horse’s leg, if I may state! I was hesitant! Is that good enough an answer for you?” Rick scowls, but looks away, gritting his teeth. Because yes, truly, that was a good answer. Syd might not have been able to perform the healing task a second consecutive time, and much less on such a larger specimen. The pianist inhales deeply. He needs to calm down. It was childish and stupid of him to pick these fights, and getting along with everyone was something he needed to accomplish desperately. Richard was, indeed, able to calm himself to some extent, but that was until Roger decided to lash out again. “You’re acting like an absolute bastard, being pissy at everyone for no reason.” 

Perhaps it was in the matter-of-fact tone Roger had used. Or the way the bassist never held himself back from saying the rudest things, to his bandmates no less. Then again, it might have been the fact that Waters knew he still had the upper hand, and showed it proudly. Standing straight and tall, his nose up and mouth quick to flash out a million bullets of hurtful vocabulary he had accumulated over the years. If one thing showed off on Roger like no other, it was his prim and polished ego. Richard hated it so much. But another fact made Rick simply despise the half-horse even more; The fact that Roger Waters, the man who could never keep his mouth shut when he set his mind to assaultive words, made the entire band who they were now. And by far, this was not a good thing. 

Either way, it made Rick do something completely involuntary. He felt his own blood broiling beneath his very skin, his palms getting progressively slick with sweat as they coiled and his muscles tensed. He doesn't yipe or yell, or even show pain as his teeth dived into his gums, lengthening and sharpening. He tastes now a sweet something on his tongue, and somehow he knows it is blood. The pianist never looks away from Roger. His eyes catch the sight of the bassist’s neck as his fists shake, a sneer on his face leaks some of his own blood from his maw. The bassist, on the other hand, as well as most of the other band members, take a few warning steps back. But it was Roger who was most fearful of Wright. 

The once timid pianist taints his eyes right onto Waters’ throat. He sees it so clearly as everything else disappears into an inky blackness. Richard only seems to salivate more at the sight, and the single thought of his own hands on the tender piece of flesh as his jaw clamps down, imagining the warm, red ambrosia filling his mouth. It was too inviting for him. Rick’s bloodlust is only matched by his strength. His veins pump blood so hard and so fast, they swell up and are seen prominently on his pale flesh. Wright takes a moment, a second, to feel all of this force he now has, the sheer power. He knows that if he wanted to, he could take on and kill every single person he is surrounded by. But that thought leads to something worse. Realization. 

All of this feels wrong. So wrong. Richard shouldn’t be able to see in the dark, shouldn’t be able to smell all he can; the pain, the fear, the perspiration. His teeth shouldn’t be so sharp and crowded. He shouldn’t have so much muscle, shouldn’t have been able to climb up a vertical wall or jump seven feet high. He shouldn't have gold splotches in his eye or pointed ears that hear everything. His first instinct should not be to crouch on the ground, crawl like an animal so agilely. He knows what he has made himself believe isn’t at all true. He didn’t inherit any of this from his family, he didn’t keep muscle from ten years ago. And Rick certainly did not grind his teeth in his sleep to make them so sharp.

Richard Wright looks to his hand, sinewy but strong, and he knows that it were not human, or his arms, that were drizzled with the salty dew of forming sweat. His feet, his legs, his torso, his face. None of it were actually Rick’s own. He was a werewolf, real and true, and he didn’t know how or when or why, but now he was like this, and _this_ was no dream.

All of this was reality. All of it. Rick could hear, feel, touch, see and be all. It had to be a reality. That also meant he really did have these super-human abilities. The chance to do things with them, too. Bite, tear, rip! The thought of it was so alluring. Never having to listen to snobbish bickering again. Yes. Yes! That, and the fact that perhaps Wright could be parched from his thirst. Rick feels his throat, so dry and so rough, crying for quenching in the back of his mouth. He could feel Roger’s body heat from where he stood, it was as if bassist blood called to him. 

In the end, the wolf won.

Rick, without thinking anything through, leaped. He wasn’t doing it for height this time, but for length and accuracy. He judged correctly. Wright slammed all of his weight into the opposing monster, causing both beasts to crash into the ground in union. The collision caused the earth below them to tremble from their combined weight, and due to the pain his back endured, the centaur threw his head back. A fatal mistake if any, it exposed his neck entirely. Rick saw his opportunity and took immediate action, opening his jaws impressively wide to take in the tenderness. His action exposed crooked fangs, already stained red with Richard’s own blood, ready to quench his thirst. 

The one thing that evaded the angered wolf's attention was the centaur’s flailing legs. A huge, hard hoof struck out, hitting the feral hellion square in the chest. It threw Rick’s body backwards and paralyzed him for a moment, dazed and in moderate pain. The horse’s kick was enough to break bricks, but Richard remained intact, titanium. However, the only thing hooves couldn’t stop was Rick’s thirst. Hunger drives him to get up, and spring again. But in a mid-air leap, Wright’s arms were bound. He was suddenly pinned down onto long, heavy coils. The bloodthirsty pianist feels pure muscle, covered in slick emerald scales that restrain his arms as the snake wraps his tail around Rick, caging the rogue and immobilizing him. Until the wolf felt the tail slide under his chin, so close to his mouth. Richard bit down hard onto the naga’s tail. He broke the skin, and was rewarded by the warmth and sweetness of blood flowing into his mouth. He relished the taste as long as he could, ignoring the naga’s shrieks. But the snake shook himself free, and struck Rick in the mouth while doing so. 

Once again, the savage pianist finds himself thrown to the ground, the air dispersed from his chest. He heaves for a breath as he feebly tries to stand. But he succeeds in pushing himself to a much more comfortable stance with a roar, he crouches on all fours, poised and ready to kill. He locks eyes with his prey of choice, the centaur, who does not stand stoic and stone-faced, proud and sultry. No. The horse is crumpled, shaking, and looking upon Wright with terror. Rick welled up with pleasure not only by this action, the expression of death, but also the strong stench of fear that emulated from the centaur. It struck the pianist's nostrils, and he loved it. 

He charges this time, on all fours, with unimaginable speed, but then he fell. Something had wrapped around his ankle, chaining him to the spot. He looked down, seething with rage at whatever dares disrupt him from stalking his prey, and finds he has aimed his anger on a root. Rick tried to wriggle and tug himself free, and with how much force he was using, he should have escaped. But he didn’t. The ugly little gnarled nest of roots only wrapped itself around his leg more, until others dug up from the ground and attached themselves to his limbs. Enraged and starving, Wright struggles even to move, and when he finds that he is paralyzed by the flora, he resorts to snapping his mouth, trying to get as close as he could to the frightened figures darting around him. A look of terminal shock was in their eyes, Rick could tell, he could feel it.

But he looked around the faces, trying to find the source of what was binding him. Finally, his eyes find it. Pale, thin, squatting down with his hands pressed into the ground, unafraid and concentrated. He looked vaguely familiar, in fact, Rick was sure he knew him. But the strange thing was, he could not recall this skimpy man’s name, it was forgotten by his memory. But he didn’t care, whoever this man was, he was interfering with the wolf’s hunt. Wright roars at him. How dare that _worm?_ As soon as Richard was free, this pale, insignificant fool was as good as _dead._

Unfortunately for him, the roots were growing around Rick at a horribly fast pace, even winding around his neck and torso. The pianist was frozen upright while he tried to thrash his body as the bottoms of plants covered him, a forest cage. Moving was impossible. All Wright could do was stare forward, letting out ferocious growls and barks that deteriorated into whines and whimpers when the feeling of dreaded helplessness came over him.

He was quiet when a face appeared in front him, red, white, and striped. The fish. Rick immediately returned to snarling and snapping his jaws again, but he was never able to reach the looming merman. Then, more figures closed in on him, even the horse dared to stray closer. Richard’s thoughts consumed and overwhelmed him. With all the other beasts that had strayed so close, he could have torn them to shreds. That was, if he could move. His sharp inhales let him take in their combined scents, he salivates at all the smells. Fear was addictive. 

Rick couldn’t move anything but his eyes. Not his face or neck, his arms, his back, his toes or even fingers. But his eyes darted wildly to all the faces around him. He would let out a low growl that resonated deep in his throat when anyone strayed near his proximity. 

Mouths move and words exchange, they talk in hushed rushes. All Richard hears is his own heartbeat and muffled voices. Then he sees the pale one walk up to him. The pianist knows that he is speaking, but words aren’t processed in Rick’s head anymore. The only response the wolf gives is it's bared teeth, a sign of enragement at this pale _thing_ who kept him bound so tightly by these plants. 

After some time of intense staring at one another, the pale figure above Rick finally acts. It holds his fingers out and above his ferocious face, almost like it's mocking him. Those insignificant fleshy nubs deserved to be ripped off, he thought. But Wright almost feels entranced by the elaborate movements those fingers make, so swift, so calming. But then he is blinded, as suddenly those fingers conjure a bright light. At first it was like a spiky shiny sphere, but it took a more oval-like shape as it morphed. Finally, the light dimmed, and all was left was the a face of a monstrous creature that looked at him fiercely. 

The creature, strangely, looked familiar, too. More so than with those other four figures, actually. Rick sees heavy eyes and long, brown hair. A rounded nose, thin lips, and a prominent, square jaw,. It seemed, in fact, that Richard was very used to this face. But there were things that seemed off, kept him from actually knowing it. He doesn’t recall the teeth being so huge or pointed to the point that the mouth couldn’t contain them. The nose is too scrunched and mean looking, nostrils flaring what has to be hot breath, and the mouth was contorted in a snarl. Those eyes he thought, no, he _swore_ gave a dull glimmer of blue, but they now sparked intense amber. A horrible looking thing indeed, much more grotesque and hellish that the other creatures that surrounded him. He didn’t like it. 

Feeling as if he were being threatened by the face, Rick snaps his jaws at the monster. But the monster copied his movements at the exact time he performed them. The pianist tries again, faster. The monster repeats it with exact timing. But it never comes closer or farther away than Richard has come to it. 

It was then that Rick understood. Worry traces his face as the anger melts away. The monster he sees now looks scared. And Richard is scared, too. The exact same worry lines, eyes, expressions. They both share them. Because they are the same thing. The object that the pale creature - no, Syd, he remembered, the object Syd had made in front of his face was a mirror. He was showing Rick his own reflection. 

Tears came, hot and fast. Because he was that hideous. He was that ferocious. That demonic. That _monster._ And Rick couldn’t move to wipe either of them away, the tears or the foul reality. All he could do was look at the mirror, and watch himself cry. He wanted the orb to disappear, save him the little dignity he had left. But it wouldn’t budge. Neither could his body, he couldn’t even move his head. But there was relief in this. A fearful relief, in fact, because he knew what he was now. He could try to control this. He could at least try. 

They all watched him cry. Syd, Roger, David and Nick. And Richard saw them. It made his stomach lurch, seeing them with faces that reminded him of frightened rabbits about to be eaten. And what was going to devour them? None other than the wolf, bound and weeping before them. Knowing that even though Rick was at the lowest point he could be at, he could still be ready to maul them. But that wasn’t true! He wanted to yell that at them. He didn’t want to hurt anyone! He didn’t want to be like this! He just wanted everything to be normal again. He wanted to be yelled at by Roger in the studio. He wanted to listen to bickering about the tune of the new song they were producing. He wanted to sit in the chair in the corner and just be invisible. Just the piano player. Just an asset everyone could afford to lose. 

Richard Wright hated this. How judgmental eyes watched his all the time, how he was always the center of attention. Because now he was dangerous, now he was something to be looked at. Rick remembers that he wanted to be more included with everyone. Perhaps asked out to go on the town, have a few drinks, go to the theatre rather than just told goodbye when he left work for the day. But this? This wasn’t the attention he wanted. This wasn’t how he wanted to be included. And that voice in his head had changed, it told him to make them stop staring. Make them not afraid. Tear their eyes out and they won’t watch you. They won’t watch anything ever again.

Rick gasped at the voice. Started to feel himself hyperventilate. He wanted all of this to go away. The voice, the stares, the faces, the feelings, the roots. The world. Just put him in darkness. Just send him away. Hell, drop him in the river and let him drown. Put him out of his misery. Just to have everything _stop!_

It was then he noticed the mirror had disappeared and he was falling, and before his face made contact with the ground, his arms had instinctively caught himself. But he wanted to fall roughly to the ground, he wanted to scrape his arms and have bruises on his chest. Rick was tired of all these acts of sudden instinct, tired of all these abilities. He didn’t approve of his teeth, his claws. He didn’t like these thoughts, these voices in his head. The pianist wasn’t made for harboring the spirit of a ravenous wolf, an unquenchable thirst, and a predisposition for anger even stronger than Roger’s. 

Rick stares at the grass. Soft and silent and good under his hands, how lucky it was. It couldn’t change into a weed, or be wrought and mangled into thorns. The keyboardist’s body slumps to the ground with a small _thud._ And the grass didn’t say anything about it, either. It simply made a living bed for the piano player, it didn’t snap or bite at his wrists or ankles or dig itself into his skin. Richard’s tears sting his eyes. Even the grass was better off than him. Curling himself into a small ball, he hugs his legs close to his chest. Everything ached. He didn’t want to be a weed anymore. 

Rick hated how everything about him had changed, been switched out with something born and bred in hell. And how hard he tried to hold on to himself! How he had struggled to retain his being. It proved to be no use, everything he was, everything he had known about himself was ripped from him, replaced with a hairy, overgrown, snarling skin. Richard was stuck somewhere in the middle, between himself, his old self, and a feral wolf. The worst part was, the keyboardist was able to give into temptations. He fell into a routine of anger, piping hot ferocity. But he just didn’t want it, really. He wanted what he used to be. He couldn’t have it back.

Fear shot through him like a bullet when he felt someone touched his shoulder. He flew back, crouched to the ground, away from whoever had touched him as he let out a sharp and shrill, _“No!”_

Syd kneeled over where Wright had been, his arm recoiled, his eyes watery. And Rick’s nostrils flared, he smelled fear. Nauseous, rotting, stenchful fear. Especially from the others, who had jumped when the timid pianist had moved away so suddenly. But Richard smelled fear on himself, too. He was scared about what he might do to these wonderful, unique, brilliant people he had surrounded himself with for years, should they get too close.

“Rick?”

A voice so familiar, so soft and friendly and welcoming. It was like a fresh glass of water almost, it refreshed Rick’s ears, it was something so good to hear. Richard heavily peeked open his eyes to see David. Though worry still drowns and toys with the pianist, he doesn’t move as the merman inches closer. But their bandmates worry. Nick watches closely, one hand outstretched, as if he wanted to yank the guitarist away. Roger, now far away from Rick, taints his eyes right on the keyboardist, braced, and if Rick should move, Roger would be the force to recon with. Syd whispers warnings to David. But the guitarist ignores them. His big blue eyes study Rick and Rick alone, his focus is only on the teary ball in front of him. He moves boldly toward the small weeping heap, until there is but a yard-length between the two. 

“Do you want to take a nap?” David asks. 

It was such an unexpected question. Richard’s mind momentarily blanked because of it. A nap? Is that what he said? That was definitely what he said. But sleep? Now? Rick feels like he should be getting yelled at, being scorned, shunned. But it was quite the opposite. And the more Rick thought about it, about rest, about sleep, the more he realized just how exhausted he was. He had been up all night, not that he wanted to, but those… _changes_ had forced him to. They had drained him. And he didn’t notice until right then. 

The others regarded David as mad. Richard didn’t blame them one bit, either. No one could predict in the slightest what the keyboardist would do anymore, and that meant their trust in his has dissipated entirely. But for some unfathomable reason, the pianist trusted David. Perhaps it was because the guitarist didn’t purposefully irritate him like another bandmate he knew. 

Nonetheless, it was an offer Rick wasn’t going to let slip by. Shaking as he stood, while wiping away the tears that still stained his face, Richard pushed himself up. He followed the merman away from the others, the stares, the whispers, the untrust. He realized that for once, he felt relaxed. Not only that, but he felt much more comfortable. His pointed features seemed to have resided, leaving his normal, more human-like complexion. His teeth fit easily in his mouth, his face wasn’t scrunched, and his adrenaline-soaked body now was calm, if not slightly jittery. Rick felt relieved.


End file.
